Preferred Stock
by Chickwriter
Summary: The twenty-first century descendants of the Crawleys, now without titles, but ruling the new elites with far more power and wealth than Mary and Matthew could ever have imagined. Consider it the AU S55.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So I've decided to wander into the realm of modern.. not necessarily AU, however. What follows is what I like to think happened to the descendants of Mary & Matthew.. where they would be in today's world. I'm a journalist who covers politics and finance, and so this happened. _

_There's a soundtrack to this... if you care to listen along, it's Craig Armstrong's "As If To Nothing." The song for the prologue is called "Inhaler."_

_I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think..._

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><p><strong>Preferred Stock 1?**

_Thursday, 10 November 2011_

It was not her club, and she was glad of it that Thursday night, the air outside as cold as she felt inside as the minutes ticked by, closer to midnight, closer to Friday and the day that would change her life and her family's lives forever. She did not want to be seen in the usual haunts, where London's bankers and financiers who knew everything before anyone else did would look upon her with scorn or pity or a little of both. This club was a haven for artists and writers, the kind of people with whom her sister Sybil and brother-in-law Felix could be found, the kind who would not be able to pick Mary Crawley out of a lineup if they had to, which was just as well, since tomorrow there would be a lineup of sorts in front of cameras, in which a young upstart would be hailed as savior of the grand old investment firm Crawley Martin Thorpe, and she would smile and nod and act as if it wasn't the one of the greatest injustices in history.

Everything was Patrick's fault, and yet no one was punishing Patrick. No one was keeping him off the dais even as the company had fallen to near-ruin about him, even though his idiotic decisions had forced this change, even though he was responsible for far greater crimes than the destruction of an eighty-five-year-old family business. He would stand up there and pretend this was all part of the plan, and Mary hated him for it, for all of it.

"The truth is neither here nor there. It's the look of the thing that matters," had been all her father would say after the German affair, and no matter how often she pointed out that she'd done absolutely nothing illegal or even wrong, he was afraid, always afraid, of how it would look, and so he had passed her over in favor of her cousin Patrick to run things.

"Look where that got you," she muttered, and Sybil's head jerked around.

"What?"

"Nothing, darling." She picked up her glass, draining the dregs of a lime-spiked tonic, knowing full well she couldn't bear alcohol tonight. "Tell me again what happened when you asked Cameron about NATO and Libya."

Sybil's eyes lit up and she once again recounted the press conference, a story Mary knew well enough to nod at all the right places as she looked around the room. A slightly boisterous group had just come in and parked at a nearby table, and she looked at them wistfully, wishing she herself could be that cheerful. She did not remember the last time she felt like that.

"And then he couldn't remember the timing." Sybil sat back and toasted herself, earning indulgent smiles from Mary and from Felix, who noticed Mary's glass was empty.

"Another?" he asked.

"I'll get it. The same?" Felix nodded and Sybil shook her head as Mary unfolded herself from the banquette and strode toward the bar, studiously ignoring the raucous laughter and toasts at the table next to theirs.

* * *

><p>He liked this club, liked that it wasn't full of brokers and blondes, liked the music that fell somewhere between jazz and dirty electronica with a dash of Florence + the Machine, liked that it was just loud enough, and liked that the cocktails were properly mixed as they had been at his favourite haunt in New York. He was just finishing his first, grimacing at the ease at which all his friends were already on their third, when something caught his eye, or rather, someone, a tall woman, with dark, glossy hair halfway down her back, walking toward the bar. He admired the long legs, encased in spiky black boots that came up past her knees, the grace with which she moved, clearly unfettered by alcohol. She leaned across the bar, and the bartender grinned and nodded as she spoke, and then she turned around.<p>

She did not look at him at first, and he was glad he could stare for a moment. The dark locks framed pale skin, deep brown eyes, and a scarlet curve of a mouth that he suddenly wanted to kiss. She wasn't pretty so much as she was spectacularly, uniquely beautiful, and he found himself standing, walking, making his way toward her, his nearly-empty glass in his hand, wondering why she looked so familiar.

* * *

><p>She noticed him standing up before she noticed him, tall, slim, but with an air of innate strength about the shoulders as he walked toward her. She admired the slight swagger, earned and deserved if what he looked like underneath those clothes was anything close to what he looked like in them. It was his eyes, however, which drowned her, the ungodly blue gleaming like spotlights in the dark club, and she grinned as a wave of pure desire washed over her, followed by a coldness that stopped her breath.<p>

There was a reason he seemed so familiar.

He was the upstart, the purported savior-genius with a name that was too devastatingly cruel to be a joke. He was Matthew Crawley, allegedly no relation, come back home from his heroic time in New York City rescuing investment firms to reorganize and clean up the business founded by a long-gone Matthew Crawley and David Martin in the 1920s, the business that had turned this branch of the Crawley family into billionaires, the business she had always believed she would take over, the business that was nearly broken by her father's stupid belief in her stupid cousin, and this Matthew Crawley was walking toward her with a smile on his face that made her weak even as she steeled herself against the first meeting of the man who was about to ruin her life.

* * *

><p>He could not believe the grin on her face, could not believe that in a matter of seconds he had fallen in love with a woman he did not know, had never even spoken to, and yet, there it was. And yet, there it wasn't, for the smile was suddenly replaced by a cold glare and she deliberately turned her back on him as he reached the bar.<p>

"May I buy you a drink?" His voice, deep and lovely, thrummed in her and she bit back her first reply as she turned briefly in his direction.

"It's probably better if you don't," she said. "Thank you."

"Fair enough," he replied. The hot-to-cold confused him. He ordered a Negroni.

"Bitter," she remarked.

"A little," he said. "I'm Matthew, by the way."

She shot him a look, terrifying and icy, and did not reply, and he did not try again, even as the idea that he _should_ know who she was burned at him. They stood silently, watching the bartenders expertly mix the cocktails at a speed favored by snails.

"See you tomorrow," she said inexplicably as she took her drinks back to her table.

_Why would she say that?_ He took a sip of the Negroni, and the word _bitter _came back into his head and as he watched her walk away, an awful coldness struck him.

He'd just introduced himself to Mary Crawley.

* * *

><p>She kept her head up as she made her way back to the table, her blood like fire, tears pricking the back of her eyes. She would not cry. "Here," she said, handing Felix his drink and banging hers down on the table. "I'm leaving."<p>

"Who was that?" Sybil asked.

"That," she said as she wrenched on her jacket. "That's the new chairman. That's Matthew Crawley."

"No!" Sybil turned her head quickly to look at him and looked back. "Did he know who you were?"

"No," she said. "Will you be there tomorrow?"

Sybil laughed. "Watching from the safety of the Guardian offices. Give Eddie my love, will you?" She looked back at Matthew. "What's he like?"

Mary shrugged. "Full of himself." She kissed her sister's cheek, and Felix's. "Just make sure the picture they print of me is a decent one."

* * *

><p>He made his way back to the table after she left, internally fuming at the knowledge that her companions now knew what he'd done. He did not know them either, but he felt sure he was supposed to, which only made him angrier. He hoped people at his table hadn't noticed the exchange, but as he sat down, Ben was already frowning.<p>

"So what did you and Mary Crawley have to talk about? She left in a bit of a huff."

Matthew looked over at his oldest friend. "I didn't recognize her."

"You idiot. Did you read the briefing books?"

"Yes, I read the bloody briefing books."

"I told you to memorize that family. That's where your problems are going to come in, not with the business. You know how to handle that. These people.." Ben shook his head. "Make it up to her and make friends with her. If you do nothing else in the next ninety days, make friends with Mary Crawley."

"Why?"

Ben Macmillan leaned forward and stole his Negroni. "Because she's the smart one. Because no one in this town can understand why the old man passed her over in favor of that idiot Patrick Thorpe. Because if you have her as an ally, you can get rid of that idiot and the rest of the dead weight at Crawley Martin Thorpe and cement your reputation as the best mind in this business and retire before you're thirty-five."

"I'm thirty-four."

"Exactly."

Matthew shook his head. "I don't know. You didn't meet her. I'll be lucky if she lets me make eye contact again."

* * *

><p>The loft's main room was dark, the only light from the city itself, shining in through the glass and steel. "Eddie?" Mary called, tossing her keys onto the hall table. She could hear music echo across the space, and Mary crossed the living room and walked through the door it came from.<p>

The studio was two stories, one wall just sheets of glass that ordinarily welcomed the perfect light by which to paint. Tonight, the shades were drawn, and the illumination came from the huge film lights that hung from the ceiling, drawing Mary's eye to the giant new canvas and she gasped.

It was only the beginning, a rough oil sketch at this point, but it was already clear what the critics raved about, why they were describing this artist as the descendant of Caravaggio and Sargent and Freud, why paintings signed _E.C._ were being snapped up at unheard-of prices, why gallery owners and dealers were clamoring to know who this mysterious artist really was and creating buzz at events by _swearing _that E.C. would be at the show. "Eddie, it's wonderful."

Their eyes met, and Mary was reminded yet again why she really hated Patrick as she looked at her sister's face, the twisting scar across the cheek that wound deep into the golden hair and the flat grey eyes that were once so full of light and happiness, but now showed no emotion.

Patrick had stolen Mary's birthright, put the family's fortunes and the fortunes of others at risk with his terrible judgment, but worst of all, he had been the one driving the car that wrecked on the road from Downton Abbey, the drunken man who had walked away without a scratch, but who had left her baby sister Edith in that car with a smashed hip, that cut across her face, and her tongue all but bitten off. Because it happened on private property, her family was able to cover it all up, to prevent a terrible scandal, but it came at too high a cost. Her beautiful sister was destroyed physically and emotionally, her angelic voice a memory, and her once-graceful walk now a step and a drag that Edith could not bear to let people see. She broke her engagement after her fiancé flinched at the sight of her, and now this silent wreck of a girl answered only to Eddie, painted twenty hours a day, allowed only her sisters Mary and Sybil to see her, and tolerated Felix, who was her link to the art world and her champion.

Mary's fury flared up in a great, hot wave, and as she saw the clock turn to midnight, she had no qualms about adding another person to her list, a person who would likely ignore her and push her aside as her father and Patrick had done before, and for some strange reason, it pleased her to feel this way.

She hated Matthew Crawley.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who's reviewed this. If you're following along with the soundtrack (Craig Armstrong's "As If To Nothing") this chapter's track is "Amber." _

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><p><strong>Preferred Stock 2?**

_Friday 11 November 2011  
><em>_4:30_

She had not needed an alarm clock since university, her body instinctively knowing when to come up out of the velvety darkness to full awareness, the temptation to sleep late ignored as she swung bare feet onto the soft carpet and padded over to her closet. She heard the soft click of the front door, knew it was Jemma, and felt her body shudder in anticipation. Going into the room was the hardest part, she reminded herself. After that, it was easy.

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><p>The soft pings roused him, the iPad instantly illuminating the room, the RSS feeds of financial headlines already scrolling across the screen. He could hear the click of the espresso machine starting, the television turning on, and he swung bare feet onto the black hardwood floor and strode into the kitchen.<p>

It wasn't a large flat so much as it was a wildly luxurious one, and unsurprisingly sterile, considering he'd only been here for forty-eight hours. He required only three things in a home… a good bed, obscenely quick internet, and a proper espresso maker. Those things had never changed, not since he was at university and he'd brought his own bed, rigged an illegal connection outside the uni network, and inherited a rather fussy Italian machine from a former occupant of his rooms. Since those first days of learning to coax water through grounds, the service had changed to wifi, the beds had gone from Sealy, to Hypnos, to Haastens, and that old manual monster had become this sleek automatic machine that hissed and spit out flawless shots. He glanced at the television, and as he stood, naked, in a kitchen that still felt strange, he learned from CNBC Asia that the maverick/hotshot/prodigy/risk-taker/genius Matt Crawley was about to be put in place as chairman of Crawley Martin Thorpe. "No relation to the founding family," the anchor droned, and Matthew grinned.

"Thank God for that," he whispered to the barely-furnished room.

* * *

><p>The room was already hot, and Jemma was flat on her back on the mat, her blue eyes focused on the ceiling. She would allow Mary only a few minutes to get used to the heat and humidity before standing and beginning the series of postures, ninety minutes in silence, the practice burned into them both. Pranayama breathing, half-moon, awkward, eagle, a brief break and the misery of the standing series, the agony of watching Jemma's tiny body flex into impossible positions, her foot above her head, her legs perfectly straight. It was always like that with Jemma, that surprising perfection, even when they were both barely out of university, and they met on the trading floor. No one ever believed Jemma could do anything, the fragile little blonde with giant blue eyes and a vulnerable look. It was a trap, of course. She was ruthless, brutal, a veritable machine on the floor and on the phones, second only to Mary in the strange maths of stocks and risk management. She moved up in Crawley Martin Thorpe as quickly as Mary did and Mary secretly hoped the two of them could run the place someday.<p>

Of course, it was not to be. One night after a particularly insane day at work, the two had ended up in a peculiar bar in Shoreditch, and for whatever reason, the owner, a tall man with a literary streak and a way with taps bowled over Jemma. Three kids (theirs), two novels, (his), and a wildly successful yoga studio (hers) later, they still owned that quirky bar named "Dead Novelists," and Mary still couldn't figure it out. "You just know," was all Jemma would ever say.

They were into the floor series, which meant two things. One, they were nearly finished, and two, it meant camel pose, which was Mary's sole reason for enjoying this six-days-a-week practice.

Her back arched as she grabbed her heels, pushing her hips forward, head flung back. "It activates the fight or flight feeling," their first instructor had told them, and the sensation thrilled Mary as her head dropped almost to her feet. The rest was a blur, and then, just as the clock struck six, they finished, the final savasana a relief as Mary briefly closed her eyes, the cleansing sweat pouring off her. "Thank you," she whispered to Jemma.

"You don't have to keep saying that," Jemma replied. "Anyway, it should be namaste."

Mary grinned as she sat up and flicked a bit of sweat at Jemma. "All right. Namaste, bitch."

It was an old joke between them and they laughed as they picked themselves up, hung the mats to dry, and headed off to shower.

* * *

><p>Shower and workout complete, he went back to the briefing book one last time as he tied his tie. As Mary Crawley's dark eyes glared at him from the left side of the page, he read through the highlights once again.<p>

Le Rosey, Clare College, Cambridge (after his time), the floors of the London and New York stock exchanges, two years in Hong Kong and Tokyo, then returned to fund management and climbed the ladder, but was passed over for chief executive in favor of Patrick Thorpe, who was the entire reason Matthew was here to begin with.

He turned the page to see Patrick, although he knew him on sight from the endless stream of stories about him. All the privileges and none of the brains of his distant cousin Mary, and yet the elder Crawley and the boards had seen fit to put him in charge.

"And look where that got you," he murmured to the darkened room.

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><p>Jemma looked critically at Mary, her eyes roving up and down her longtime friend's lithe form.<p>

"Say it," Mary moaned.

"Nothing," Jemma replied. "Just.. Leave your hair down."

Mary looked at herself in the glass, at the carefully arranged knot at the base of her skull. "Why?"

"You look like your great-grandmother. Take it down. Wear it down. Look as gorgeous as you are.". She inhaled the last of her tea and stood up. "Tell Eddie I said hello."

"Tell her yourself," Mary muttered as Edith limped into the kitchen and poured herself a mug of tea. She nodded at Jemma's greeting and looked at Mary. Without a pause, she reached over and took out the pin holding Mary's hair. Mary grimaced and went back down the hall.

Eddie held out her hand to Jemma, who took it in hers and began to massage it, working deep into the palm for a few minutes before rubbing the forearm and then switching hands. "Better?" Jemma murmured, and Eddie nodded. "You should get up and do yoga with us."

It was the only thing that would make Eddie laugh, and she did as she took her tea back into the studio.

* * *

><p>The part of the briefing that fascinated him most was not the story of the current family, but rather that of the founding one, and he turned it over in his head one last time as he shrugged on his jacket.<p>

_Founded in 1923 by Matthew Crawley and David Martin, Crawley-Martin had been a small firm committed to low-risk investment during a heady time in the markets. Crawley, who was once heir apparent to the Earl of Grantham, had begun as the firm's chief counsel, but became something of a savant in investing, wise and cautious, yet able to see a smart risk and take it. Clients may have lamented the 'slow and steady' sometimes, when they saw other firms get big returns on big risks, but when 1929 rolled around, the ones who stayed with Crawley-Martin were the lucky ones. There were lean years, of course, but when the markets began to limp back, Crawley-Martin clients and the firm itself had portfolios that were the envy of every investor around the world. Whether it was luck or brilliance, it didn't matter when they owned Bulova Watch, Electric Boat, and Zenith Radio stock, when they saw returns in the 1930s that no company could duplicate today. William Thorpe joined the firm in the fifties, and the firm did not stop growing, did not stop impressing the financial world with its acumen and fortune until 2007, when a series of disasters began taking down the entire financial world. Crawley Martin Thorpe initially stayed above the fray, having ignored the wishes of clients and mostly avoided the quick and subsequently dirty money of the mortgage bubble, but in 2009, allegations of potential insider trading had rocked the firm, and while no one could pinpoint who was responsible, and the phone recording that would have proven the investigators' case or proven them wrong was destroyed, the choice of Patrick Thorpe over Mary Crawley as chief executive officer seemed to be the most blatant indication that the once-brightest star at the company was at the heart of the German affair. _

Now, as the company teetered on the edge of destruction, Patrick Thorpe's leadership so clearly to blame, it was now not so clear what had happened on that call, nor why the chairman emeritus, Mary's own father, a man considered to be one of the cleverest in the business, had made such a stupid decision.

Matthew Crawley was not someone who tolerated the imaginary religion of "gut instinct" in this business. He did his research, he knew all the possibilities, and he made the best choice. That he could do it quickly, and seemingly without thinking was, he believed, a testament to hard work and brains and not the stupidity of feeling.

Yet as the elevator descended and he walked out to his ride, he had the feeling, as did Ben Macmillan and his researchers who had put together the book on this firm, that Mary Crawley had been wronged in some way, and while he was there to be the company's saviour, not hers, his own research and study (which had, clearly not involved looking at her picture enough) told him all he needed to know about what role she would play in his restructuring, regardless of the rumor that hung over her.

* * *

><p>Mary returned, hair down, the mane of nearly-black hair swinging. "Satisfied?"<p>

"It's not for my benefit. It's for yours." Jemma wound a thick scarf around her neck. "You know you told your sister to make sure they got a good picture of you."

Jemma knew her far too well, and Mary rolled her eyes as Jemma leaned up to kiss her on the cheek. "Good luck. And make friends with him."

"What?"

Jemma slung her bag over her shoulder. "All right, you don't have to be best friends, but you shouldn't fight with him."

"I wasn't planning on fighting with him." _Just destroying him,_ she thought to herself.

"Well, don't. And read the book on him if you haven't. I think he might be good for the company."

"I did read the book. Clearly he didn't, otherwise he would have known who I was."

Jemma giggled. "Oh, Mary. In a club? Especially that one? I probably wouldn't have recognized you. Listen," and she brandished the thick report. "This is someone you can work with. This is someone who thinks the way you do about credit default swaps. This is someone who's here to undo the damage to this company, and frankly, I think he could pave the way for you to take over. You're not the one who screwed up."

"Not this time," Mary muttered.

"Even then, it wasn't you!" Jemma retorted. "You know that, I know that, Percy knows that. Alastair was on your side. For God's sake, I think even your father knows, only he's too much of a coward… sorry." She broke off. "Mary, you have a chance here to make things right. Just make sure this Matthew is going to block you before you try and block him." She looked at the picture. "Good Lord, how are you going to keep from staring at him? He's very pretty."

Mary looked again at the photograph, seeing not the sleek, suited professional, but the man from the previous night, the thick, wavy, slightly tousled hair, and the insanely blue eyes drawing her in again.

"You're smiling," Jemma said.

"No, I'm not," Mary replied, pulling the corners of her mouth down. "Anyway, he's not my kind of pretty."

"Bollocks. I'm off. Promise me you'll behave. I'll be around later if you need someone to talk to."

Mary waved at her as the door clicked shut and looked back at the book again. Anywhere else, at any other time, he was her kind of pretty, but now, knowing he was about to interfere with her life, she couldn't really stand the sight of him. She turned the page to glance at the resume one last time. Tonbridge, Emmanuel College, Cambridge (before her time), New York after that (how had they not met?), a brief bit in London doing risk management at a competitor before returning to Wall Street and proving his mettle as a fixer and reorganizer. _Boards trust him_, the briefing told her. _They didn't trust me, she thought_, and she felt that bile, that hatred rise once again.

Yet as the elevator descended and she walked out to her ride, she knew Jemma was right, not just about the pretty part, but also that she was about to deal with someone who could… could… make everything right, and it might be in her own best interest, and more importantly, the interest of the firm, to get along with him.

For now.

* * *

><p>He heard the engine over his own before he saw it, the distinctive, powerful purr approaching him from behind, the slight rev of the engine drowning out the sound of his BMW motorcycle. He could see it in his rearview, a vintage Shelby Cobra, one of the fastest cars ever built, and grinned as he saw a woman behind the wheel. She might have a fast car, he thought, but he had one of the fastest motorcycles ever made between his knees, and as the light changed, he let himself peel out with perfectly controlled speed, staying just enough in front of the Shelby that she couldn't pass him.<p>

_Honestly_, she thought as the light changed and the bike shot out in front of her, _men and their little rockets_. She eased the Shelby into gear, and let it go, allowing it to get dangerously close to his rear wheel, just enough to scare him, leaving herself just enough room to swing sideways to avoid him.

She knew what she was handling, he thought. That engine wasn't screaming at all, the power restrained as she kept up with him, through narrow streets. He didn't want to lose her in the traffic, and did not, as was his wont, weave through any stopped cars. He was damned if he was going to miss a moment of this pretend race, kept at a decent interval above the speed limit, and he wondered if he could manage to get her phone number at a stoplight.

_Oh, he was a gentleman, wasn't he?_ She loved that he was keeping to the street and not dodging off with his motorcycle as he could. Sadly, she was coming to her stop, and she downshifted to take a turn, about to wave to him when he took the turn as well. _Odd_, she thought. _There's only one place he could be._..

She turned where he did, the Shelby whipping the curve so tightly it was as if the car actually bent in the middle. Their pace slowed to a sedate one, the road narrow and ending in a large security gate, the entrance for the underground parking for Crawley Martin Thorpe, and that's where… _oh, damn it…_ where she was headed.

She didn't know anyone in the firm who owned a BMW motorcycle, at least not at the levels that mattered and would have access to this private entrance, and her heart began to pound at the possibility that her morning fun had been at the.. "Great," she whispered.

For the rider of that BMW was taking off his helmet and shaking out thick, wavy, hair, and turning to look at her with those ungodly blue eyes as she lifted her sunglasses and pulled off the scarf that kept her hair in place.

"Nice ride," Matthew Crawley said. "May I park next to you?"

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you all for alerting/reviewing - I'm glad you're enjoying a look at what I like to think of as Season 50something of DA. :D The ancestors of these characters and these names are, of course, the property of Carnival Films, NBC Universal, and Julian Fellowes. I've just borrowed them for fun and zero profit. I'm returning them in proper condition. _

_An extra thank you as always to Eolivet for making sure I don't bore the world with boardroom chatter. In advance, the FTSE is basically like the Dow, FT is Financial Times, and Steiger shoes are real and they're fabulous. The soundtrack selection, if you're playing along is "Ruthless Gravity" off Craig Armstrong's As If To Nothing._

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><p><strong>Preferred Stock 3?**

She couldn't tell him no, especially not after she looked up to see there was space next to hers. She'd look rude if she just walked off while he chatted so amiably with the attendants about the bike. He walked oddly and she realized he wasn't wearing proper trousers, but leather ones that matched his fitted jacket. _Skintight leather trousers? To the office?_ He looked at her expectantly as he handed off the keys, and she realized she had absolutely no choice in the matter. She, Mary Crawley, would be forced to walk into Crawley Martin Thorpe with Matthew Crawley, on this morning of all mornings. Jemma's words rang in her ears as he followed her to the private elevator, and she plastered a smile on her face as the doors closed. "I'm afraid," she began, "I wasn't particularly polite last night. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he replied. "It was very rude of me not to recognize you. The photograph with the briefing book…" He broke off. "Well, I was about to be rude again. Let's just say I didn't expect to see anyone from the firm at that club."

_That's why I went there_, she thought.

The elevator shot out of the underground private garage and into the building and Matthew noted with some dismay that it was a glass elevator, and they were absolutely visible to every single person who was looking up at the elevator bank as it eased up through the maze of glass and steel, and he could tell that every single person was looking. As the definition of an awkward silence crept past, they were saved by their iPhones, which began pinging simultaneously at an alarming rate. "I assume we're heading to the same floor," he said softly.

She did not look up. "Yes," she said. "Your assistant is with my assistant. They'll meet us.. ah."

The doors whooshed open, and Matthew looked at the first friendly face he'd seen all day. "Aurelie, you made it." He handed her a slim backpack and smiled at Mary. "I'll see you at the eight-thirty."

Her eyebrow flicked up ever so slightly before she smiled at him, but he noted that it did not reach her eyes. "Of course. Good luck, and welcome."

"Thank you." He watched her walk briskly away with her assistant and wondered not only how Mary drove in those shoes, but how she could possibly walk in them.

"You're over here," Aurelie murmured, the barest trace of her native accent still apparent. "Frankly, it's quite beautiful."

* * *

><p>"Eight-thirty?" she asked softly once she knew she was out of earshot.<p>

Greg's blond head bobbed once. "Levinson Conference Room at eight-thirty."

"You couldn't think to warn me?"

"It just happened, apparently. No one was warned. His assistant pulled it together in the last ten minutes." He opened the door ahead of her.

"But why eight-thirty?" She picked up the steaming mug from her desk. "He can't just wait until after the press conference ? We can't even get the New York team on videoconference before then."

"Oh, the New York team knows. Just heard from Max and he's on wakeup call duty right now. Got the feeling from his assistant that Matthew Crawley 2.0 likes to get things started early."

She couldn't help but snort at that. "What's she like?" Oolong tea, she noted, which meant Greg thought she needed fortifying.

"Aurelie? French. Very. And in the best way possible." He watched as Mary scanned her schedule on the flat screen. Past the breakfast, she noted six meetings and two conference calls and sighed. "At least it's all about to be over."

"Over?"

"I don't mean over over, I mean… well, we'll have this meeting, and we'll have this press conference, and then we can all go back to our normal life of hoping the Greeks don't destroy the civilisation they seem to think they created. Or the Americans decide to get stupid about the debt ceiling again."

Another meeting request popped on the screen and she rolled her eyes. "2.0 at two pm."

Greg grinned. "You like that?"

"Stealing it," she replied. "Makes it easier. Especially today. Will he have tea at this thing, do you think?"

"His assistant asked what you drank. I told her Mariage Freres Alishan Cha blue tea. Let's see if she can dig that up in ten minutes. He's apparently a coffee man himself. Think he does doughnuts?" He answered his own question. "Not in those pants."

"Trousers." She glanced at the Financial Times and saw those blue eyes staring back at her from above the fold and she was seized again with irritation. "You know it's not breakfast he likes," she snapped. "It's throwing people off their game."

"It's his game now."

"Remind me why I hired you again?"

Greg shrugged. "My tea? My research skills? Or the fact you can make fun of my midwestern sensibilities. Oh, wait. Sorry. Middle West."

Mary grinned and went back to the screen, memorizing the morning reports, pushing stories to her iPad, and, when Greg wasn't looking, sneaking a look at the FT. Research, she told herself. He had to have a weakness.

* * *

><p>It was beautiful, he had to admit, the view across the Thames a sight to behold. He picked up the tiny steaming cup and took a sip just as Aurelie sighed audibly. "What?" he muttered.<p>

"These people are very English," she said.

"They are English," he replied.

"You know what I mean. I miss America already."

"Are you joking? You told me you couldn't wait to get out of there."

She shrugged. "Americans are easy. Her assistant, for example. Mary Crawley's American assistant. He is exactly as polite as he is, which is to say he is not at all polite, which is a refreshing change from the blank smiles I saw in the rest of the building."

"You got all that in what, two minutes?"

"Eight," she retorted. "The moment I sent out the meeting announcement, he was outside this office pretending to be the welcoming committee. We danced around the truth as all good executive assistants should, and he told a monstrous lie about what tea Mary Crawley drinks, which he thinks I cannot get, which of course I can get, which will mean the ball is in his court and he will respect that."

"All right, Marquise de Merteuil." He put down the cup and sat down at the desk.

"I like him. I know where I stand and where you stand. Clearly she is not happy about this change. Everyone else is too polite about it."

"She was polite. Well, she wasn't last night, but I didn't recognize her."

"You saw her last night?"

"At the club with Ben." A sudden memory of his own visceral reaction to her last night struck him, and he took a deep breath. _Beautiful eyes, smile, mouth... _It didn't do to think that way about her, not now, not considering what was about to happen.

He looked up to find Aurelie smiling in that way that annoyed him, but since that day five years ago when she'd lied about being assigned to him as an intern and took over for his over-ambitious, under-qualified assistant, he'd learned to tolerate that vague insolence. Aurelie Prevot always knew the answer, always knew how to get something, always knew the story five minutes before anyone else did. She should be running operations, he thought to himself, but she hadn't indicated a desire to move on, and until he was settled, he was going to be selfish about it.

"She has lovely taste in shoes, by the way." At his confused look, she snorted. "Shoes. You looked at them as she walked away. At least I think that's where you were looking."

"I was wondering how she drove in them. Or walked."

"Or something." She opened the clippings file on his desktop and strolled toward the door as he began to read. "Your suit is in the dressing room. Don't bother looking in the closet, I've laid one out."

"Which one?"

She shook her head. "You wouldn't know one from the other, but it's the Dolce." If Matthew had looked up at that moment, he would have seen a rather affectionately indulgent expression on his assistant's face, but he did not, and the cool, amused look returned as she opened the door.

"They're Steigers," she said.

"Sorry?"

"The shoes. Walter Steiger. French, of course. You have a half hour," she told him as she shut the door.

* * *

><p>No one on either the board or the executive committee of Crawley Martin Thorpe had ever been summoned quite like this, quite so early. Oh, there had been emergencies, and long nights, and conference calls, but never had they been told to be there at eight-thirty for no other reason other than the new chairman wanted everyone in the same room before the press conference. "He could have set this up last week," Mary heard at least one executive committee member murmur as they settled in to the seats at the long table. Her father strolled in, smiling and nodding at people as if this was something he wanted, as if he hadn't made the mistake of putting Patrick in charge, as if he, Rob Crawley, the eldest grandson of the founder, wasn't about to be swept out of the way. She already knew he was to be called "chairman emeritus," which meant he'd keep his office and his driver, his social status outside, and yet inside… As much as she despised her father right now, Mary couldn't help but pity him. Patrick, on the other hand… Her eyes swept the room looking for him and spotted him in the corner with his usual suspects, the members of the executive committee and the board who had, even in these tough times, backed their man. <em>Admirable, if you consider blind stupidity admirable<em>, Mary mused, and her shoulders tensed as Patrick suddenly stared at her, his small, green eyes boring into her, and that familiar loathing swam up into her throat. _Idiot_, she thought, _useless, twisted, evil idiot_. _We're here because you're a greedy moron, because my father is a coward, because your bloody aunt is a manipulative slut, because_… She did not break eye contact until Greg tapped her on the shoulder and placed her iPad and a stylus in front of her as he surreptitiously took a sniff of her tea. He was checking out the planning, judging the new assistant, and she loved him for it. She knew she'd have to let him move into operations soon. He was too good to keep at her beck and call, but he hadn't asked yet, and she didn't feel like pushing him out of the nest until all _this _was settled.

Then_ this_ walked into the room, and a hush fell over it as Matthew Crawley smiled at everyone, shook the hand of Rob Crawley, the man he was about to make irrelevant, and sat down at the head of the table.

"I'm Matthew Crawley," he said quietly. "And I'm very honored to be joining this firm today."

* * *

><p>Matthew wasn't ordinarily in the business of throwing early surprise meetings, but he wanted to see what his executive committee knew at eight-thirty in the morning instead of the usual ten o'clock while he was in the process of deciding what to do with them. He was not surprised to see some of them smoothly and quite effectively faking their way through a few things, which he might or might not hold against them. He would hold the vague air of superiority against Patrick Thorpe, even though he had already brought down the hammer on the idiot just ten minutes before this meeting started. Patrick sat there as if he wasn't the very reason for this meeting, and took just a fraction of a second longer to respond to anyone, even the chief risk officer, who had quite wisely pointed out that he was ignoring a strategic threat. <em>Like you always do<em>, Matthew could hear in Mary's voice, and he tried not to smile.

Then again, as the executive committee and the board went back and forth over the day's events and the current status of the company, he found over and over again that it was hard not to smile as he listened to Mary, because as the hour ticked by and his mind was made up, he couldn't get over one simple fact.

She loved this stuff.

He knew it wasn't the money or the power that made her eyes gleam like that as she talked. She loved it the way he did, the way the brain had to wrap itself around numbers and emotions at the same time, the thrill of a split-second decision, and the way it was never the same week, the same day, the same minute twice. He hoped she would buy into his plan, because as she managed to do a rather complicated bit of statistical analysis without even sketching out the numbers, he started to believe that maybe Ben had been right and the way forward for this company and the way out for him was sitting four seats away from him.

* * *

><p>She knew he smiled.<p>

She knew he smiled as she broke out the maths, even though when her eyes had flicked to his, he was stone-faced, calm, and doing something that she was entirely unused to seeing at this table.

He was listening. Not just to her, but to everyone, drawing them out with questions, steering the conversation away from tangents, sensing tension between players and alleviating it with a statement or question before moving on. He ran the room and yet it wasn't about him, and as he looked to her father to close out the meeting, she found herself wanting to smile at him. Instead, she smiled at Alastair, who was looking with not a little admiration at Matthew Crawley.

* * *

><p><em>God, he was good<em>. Alastair Martin knew good, had been with the company for more than fifty years, had seen it grow under his leadership, watched it wobble under others, and had been apoplectic when Patrick Thorpe had ignored everyone's counsel and taken Crawley Martin Thorpe into the spiral that had damaged the entire financial world. William Thorpe would have strangled him for it, and old Matthew Crawley and his own father David Martin wouldn't have stopped there. The pride in this company's reputation and culture just wasn't in Patrick's genes. He was in it for the money and the prestige and it was disgusting. _Not like Mary_, he thought, and an indulgent smile crossed his face as he glanced across the table at her, thinking yet again that all this would have been unnecessary if only Rob had been brave enough to believe in his own daughter. Never mind her age, never mind the idiotic FSA investigation that would have found nothing, because there was nothing to find. She had proven to be a brilliant chief risk officer, and it wasn't her fault if Patrick had ignored every word of her advice. Anyone else who had taken it had done just fine. He hoped this Matthew Crawley would recognize her skills and respect her leadership, since it seemed her father could not.

* * *

><p>"We have a half-hour to the press conference, which will be in the old lobby. You know if you're expected on the dais. The rest will be in the front rows. I'm looking forward to making the announcement to the public, and to introducing Matthew to the rest of the company at the Armistice remembrance at eleven. Tha…" He stopped. It wasn't his meeting to close, and without a beat, Matthew picked it up.<p>

"Thank you all for coming this morning. I'll see you at the press conference." He allowed himself a glance at Mary, to gauge her reaction, and found her smiling across the table at Alastair Martin, who was returning the smile with a twinkling grin of his own, which for various reasons made Matthew smile as well.

And it was then that her head turned, and she looked at him, and for just a moment, a single heart-stopping moment, they were back in the club, in those few seconds before she knew who he was, and it was just two people, a man and a woman, smiling at each other, and he suddenly wished he was anywhere but at the head of this table.

She felt it in a great wave that rushed down the table, a crushing attraction that made her feel both inexplicably happy and irrationally angry, and in order to keep the latter emotion in check, she looked back at Alastair. "Onward and upward," she said softly. "I'll see you in a half hour." She turned to find Greg by her side, collecting her iPad, just as Aurelie walked by.

"Well done," Greg murmured.

"Of course it was," Aurelie replied.

* * *

><p>"Well done," Aurelie said.<p>

"I hope so," Matthew replied. "That was the hard part. Most of the hard part," he amended.

"What's the rest of the hard part?" Ben peeled himself up from the chair and poured himself a glass of water. "The rearranging of the deck chairs?"

Aurelie laughed merrily and Matthew shot her a filthy look as she left. "I have to convince two people in that room that I'm doing the right thing by asking them to make some pretty significant changes, and they have to believe in my decision by five o'clock today."

"So you're doing a Friday night dump? Keep it out of the FTSE, but let New York have all the last-minute fun?" Ben grinned.

"Give people something to talk about all weekend." Matthew flipped through the script on his iPad.

"You think they won't want what you're offering?"

"I think," he said slowly. "They won't believe it."

A soft knock preceded Aurelie's red head peering in. "It's time," she said softly.

"Where is this thing?" Ben asked.

"The old lobby, I'm told. Aurelie?"

"Yes. You've not seen it. Quite beautiful. I'm very impressed."

Ben laughed. "And we all know that's the most important thing."

* * *

><p>It was beautiful, Matthew had to admit, and a lovely way to preserve the firm's history. The original three-story building, the CRAWLEY-MARTIN still above the doors, was at the core of the modern building, and it was through those doors this Matthew Crawley walked to find journalists, cameras, lights, and, hanging over the dais, two paintings of two youngish men, one dark-haired and smiling, the other blond and serious with eyes as blue as his own. "The original Matthew Crawley," Ben whispered to him. "And Christ, are you sure you're not related?"<p>

* * *

><p>Six counts to breathe in, six counts to breathe out. Over and over, as Matthew spoke, about the history of the company, the importance of its culture, and its key role in the financial community, Mary concentrated only on the rhythm of her own breath, making sure she was smiling at the right moments, but otherwise keeping her face as calm as Matthew's was during the board meeting. When the questions began, she amused herself by making up a formula to guess the number of photographs that had just been taken of her. <em>The number of cameras multiplied by the number of shots per second for each of those cameras, multiplied yet again by the number of seconds it took Matthew to answer that last question… if each of the cameras took an estimated twelve shots and there were eleven people on stage and the camera moved from left to right at a speed of…<em>

"Is Patrick Thorpe out?"

It was Dany from the FT, and Mary suddenly realized Patrick was not on the dais.

"Mr. Thorpe has agreed to step aside. He will be serving on the board as a non-executive member."

_So out, but not_, Mary thought.

"I can't speak to any more executive or board changes, except to announce now that Ben Macmillan will be joining as chief counsel."

Mary glanced at the tall, almost gangly man in the front row who acknowledged Matthew and suddenly wondered who Patrick would replace on the board. There was only one seat set aside for former… _Dear God_, she thought with a start, _he wasn't going to send off old Alastair?_ She shot a look to her right, to the distinguished seventy-six-year old face, calm and proud, and her heart sank. He was her champion, her mentor, but more than that, he was like family, and she couldn't bear the thought of him being shoved out to make room for Patrick… except that's what always happened. _Good people are always shoved out to make room for Patrick. Good people are always hurt by Patrick._

It took every ounce of self-control not to glare up at the back of Matthew Crawley 2.0's head.

Six counts to breathe in, six counts to breathe out.

* * *

><p>The press relations team cleared the room quickly, leaving the board and executive committee milling about, waiting for the eleven o'clock. Mary sat quietly, still seething, when a movement along the dais caught her eye, and she saw Matthew Crawley looking up at Matthew Crawley, and as badly as she wanted to ignore him, she couldn't.<p>

"That was done in 1935," The soft voice startled him. "He was forty-five. Rather distinguished, don't you think?"

He nodded. "He doesn't seem too pleased, though."

"I think he never quite believed it," she murmured. "That's when the company took off, and to hear family tell it, as much as they believed their caution and good practices made them successful, they never thought it would make them so wildly successful. I like to believe he was waiting for the other shoe to drop in that picture."

"And to think it didn't drop."

"But it did, finally," she said as she stood up. "On his grandson's watch."

There was no answer to that, and so they stood, side by side, looking up at the painting, until Ben joined them.

"I say, are you sure you're not related?"

"Completely," Matthew said. "Well, at least as far back as the 1840s." At Mary's quizzical look, he continued. "My little sister thought the name was too much of a coincidence and went digging. We seem to be lawyers and doctors and merchants. Not a toff among us."

"Well, he wasn't either."

Ben laughed. "He inherited the Grantham estate."

"No, his wife did." Mary smiled. "That was quite the nicest present he ever gave her, I think." She extended her hand. "We haven't been properly introduced."

"Oh, God, I'm sorry." Matthew turned to them. "You really are going to think me rude. Mary Crawley, Ben Macmillan."

A deep voice came over the PA system. "Five minutes. If everyone could please move into the atrium?"

"So what happens at these remembrances?" Matthew asked as the crowd moved toward the doors.

"A moment of silence, just as they did in 1918. There's an old clock brought from Downton for the occasion, and we're silent as it chimes eleven. They did it at the estate every year and then when they started the company, it became a tradition. I don't know what we'll do if the clock goes."

"It means that much? The moment of silence, I mean."

Mary's face softened and she looked back up at the painting. "Two minutes after the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, a man who had been told he would never walk again and never father children, who believed he would never marry and would be a burden all his life, felt his legs again for the first time since a shell paralysed him. He ended up happily married with three children, and a successful company. So it's worth a fuss, I think."

"I agree," Matthew said, and his voice dropped as Ben moved ahead of them into the atrium. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

And this time she felt something inside actually lurch at the sound of his voice.

And this time he had an irrational, inappropriate thought about taking her out to dinner.

* * *

><p>She'd come to these for as long as she could remember, as a tiny child on someone's shoulders, holding Granny Violet's hand when she was eight, and pretending not to care as a sullen teenager. Last year, it had been excruciating, standing there, everyone pretending all was all right, everyone knowing it wasn't, and thinking that the founding partners must be spinning in their graves. This year, after the small clock's chimes echoed against the glass, and Matthew spoke briefly about the future, the place seemed to crackle with... <em>dare she think it? <em>

Hope.

She looked over at Granny Violet, only to find her staring at Matthew with the oddest expression on her face. "Granny Violet," she whispered. "Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right." Her still-bright blue eyes met Mary's. "Have you met him?"

"Yes."

"Is he any good?"

"We'll see. He's pushed Patrick off to languish on the board."

Violet snorted. "Wonderful. Still around to be abominable. What about you?"

"I don't know yet. I assume I'll stay where I am."

"Don't assume, dear. Oh, Rob, hello."

"Aunt Violet." He kissed her on the cheek. "May I introduce Matthew Crawley. Matthew, this is Violet Martin. Her father was Matthew Crawley, and she married David Martin's eldest son."

"Good God, Rob, are you handing out everyone's pedigree?" She looked at Matthew and smiled. "I'm very pleased to meet you, although I understand you're claiming to be no relation? Have you seen the pictures of my father?"

"Granny Violet," Mary said warningly.

"Only the painting," Matthew said.

"Well, you should see the pictures at the house."

"Matthew doesn't need to see the pictures," Mary began.

"Actually, that's a splendid idea." Rob turned to Matthew. "Sunday night at Grantham House. We have a Remembrance Day dinner and we would love it if you could attend. Wouldn't we, Mary?"

Mary blanched. "He wouldn't want to do a boring _family_ thing, Papa."

"It's not boring. You'll meet the rest of the family, Matthew. My other daughter, Sybil will be there."

"I don't think she will be," Mary replied, her voice suddenly cold, and Matthew knew there was something else afoot.

"I don't want to intrude on a family event," he said.

"Nonsense. Of course Sybil will be there, she never misses a Remembrance Day." He turned back to Matthew. "You won't be intruding. We'd like to welcome you and Charlotte's looking forward to meeting you."

He knew it would be rude at this point to lie and say he had plans, but looking at Mary's stony face, he wondered if rude was better for self-preservation. "I'd be honored, Rob. Thank you." He stole another glance at Mary, and knew self-preservation would have been a far smarter option.

"Excellent. Come at eight. Mary, tell your sister I expect to see her there. Matthew, I'll walk with you." They turned to walk away but Mary's voice stopped them.

"Which sister, Papa?"

He did not turn around, and this time her voice was even colder, barely audible, but crystal clear. "You have three daughters." She shot a look at Matthew, who had turned, and his face was apologetic, sweet even, and that fierce, irrational hatred flared in her again and for the first time today, she could not stop herself. "And while I know you have trouble with the idea of integrity, Sybil doesn't. She won't be there."

There was an awful silence in that small corner of the world.

_You were right, Ben, _Matthew thought as he looked at her. _That's where your troubles are going to come in, not the business._ He prided himself on not being emotional, prided himself on always keeping feelings out of business, but then he'd never been in a family business, and even though an outburst like that would make him think twice about any other executive, coming from her and knowing she'd been undercut by her own father, and then to just be dismissed like that... He had a vision of taking her hand and running from this place, up the great glass stairs and out the door, perhaps to Paris, or New York, anything to make her smile again like she'd smiled today. Her eyes were dark and inscrutable, boring into her father's back. _It changes nothing,_ he said to himself. _I still will do what I have to do._

"Mary, I'll see you at two?" His voice was perfectly neutral.

"Yes, of course. Looking forward to it," she said, her voice as neutral as his. He walked away with her father, and as Granny Violet turned to speak to someone, Mary had never felt quite so abandoned in her life. Her iPhone buzzed, and she glanced at it before sliding her thumb across. "Did you watch?"

"Well, the financial desk thinks he's the second coming. FTSE index numbers already seem pretty cheerful about him." Sybil's voice was muffled, as if she was holding her hand over the mouthpiece. "But that's not why I'm calling."

"By the way, before I forget, Papa's invited Matthew Crawley 2.0 to dinner on Sunday."

"2.0. Funny."

"It's Greg's name for him."

Sybil snorted. "We'll have to do postmatch analysis at your place."

Mary let a few seconds go by before she replied. "I'm supposed to tell you to be there."

"How many times do we have to go over this with him? I'm a journalist. I can't be cavorting with newsmakers one minute and writing about them the next. He still doesn't take me seriously."

"Well, he doesn't take me seriously either. I'm not sure this new one will."

"That's why I'm calling." Her voice dropped.

"What is it? Where are you, by the way? In a car boot or something? Have you been kidnapped?"

"No, I'm by the skips outside The Guardian."

"Sybil, you're smoking again."

"We're not talking about me. Just look at the front page of the FT online right now." The line went dead, and Mary clicked on the bookmark and watched as the headline blossomed on the screen.

_MAJOR SHIFTS AT CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE – THORPE OUT – ALASTAIR MARTIN OFF BOARD._

And below that, the first line told her that Matthew Crawley was bringing in the chief risk officer from his last place in New York.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Aww, you guys are great. So glad you're enjoying it. A shortish chapter, but nonetheless important. Again, disclaimer... the ancestors of these characters and some of these names belong to Carnival and JF. Borrowing, dusting off, and returning intact without making a dime from it. It's like a credit default swap... except it isn't._

_Soundtrack: Ruthless Gravity continues, and shifts to Finding Beauty... both off "As If To Nothing." You can probably figure out when it changes...  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 4?**

_Three daughters,_ he thought to himself as the elevator ascended. He thought back to the briefing book, remembering only the mention of Sybil Maier, a political writer at _The Guardian,_ but there was no other daughter mentioned and he wondered who she was and why it was such a sore spot.

"_Merde!" _Aurelie cursed under her breath, first in French, then in German. She handed Matthew her iPhone and he felt his heart stop as he read the FT headline. "Shit," he said in English. "Shit, shit, shit. Who leaked?"

"Probably the one you're bringing in," Aurelie murmured. "His assistant is an idiot."

He kept reading it, thankful they were alone in the elevator, his mind racing. _Fixable,_ he thought.

"Get Mary Crawley to my office. Wait." He stopped. "No. I need to go to her. Tell her assistant I'm coming down there now."

And as the door opened, he turned left and nearly ran over Greg.

"She's waiting for you," was all he said, and looked daggers at Aurelie.

* * *

><p><em>Paris,<em> she thought. _Or New York again. No, Paris. I need Paris. _She shivered as she looked across the city, memorizing the view. _Strange,_ she mused, _how all I feel is relieved somehow that it's over. I lost, but it's over. _Her throat burned as she raged at herself for letting her emotions show in front of Matthew. "You must be congratulating yourself on such a lucky escape." she whispered to the glass.

"Escape from what?" The voice shocked her and she spun to see Matthew standing in the doorway. He shut the door deliberately and turned back to her. "I assume you've seen the FT?"

"Yes," she said coldly. "You've got a leak problem."

"It's a journalist doing her job," he replied. "And yes, someone said something. It's not going to be a problem, though."

"It's not a problem? That one of the most senior members of this firm, a legend in the company, found out he was sacked through a newspaper headline? An online newspaper headline? How could you do that?" Before he could answer, she stormed ahead, not caring what he thought. "Alastair Martin's given his life to this company. His institutional memory alone should make you want to keep him, but no, you've got to shove him out to make room for Patrick. Patrick," she spat out. "Who has failed this company on every level and deserves to be actually booted out the door. Except," she added. "He is the sort to have procured compromising photos of everyone on the board, likely with goats or other farm animals, so I wouldn't put it past him to have blackmailed his way into the board slot." She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. "Alastair deserves better."

"Yes, he does," Matthew said slowly. "And that's not how he found out. Or what he found out, for that matter." He looked back at the door. "I need Alastair in here. Can your assistant call him?"

"Of course he can." But she made no move, said nothing, and he watched her expectantly.

"Are you going to tell him?" he asked.

"He already knows." She raised her voice. "He's listening at the door."

"It's my job," Greg yelled.

She looked back at Matthew. "Of course, Alastair may already have left. I was thinking about it."

"Where would you go?"

"To work?" He was so calm, almost smiling, and she had a fierce desire to slap that look off his face.

"No, if you left right now. Where would you go?"

"Are you suggesting I do so?"

"If I was, I would have asked 'where _will_ you go?' No, I'm just curious. If you're running, to where are you running?"

"Paris," she replied.

His hand ruffled through his dark blond hair. "Mary, I'm sorry. I was hoping to have a long, quiet meeting about this, where we could discuss why this is the best thing for the company. I wanted you to have a little time to get on board with it. It's not going to happen that way."

"I hope your apology to Alastair is better than this," she muttered. "Have you even spoken to him?"

"Yes," he said. "Ten minutes before this morning's meeting. Right after I got in this morning."

She let out a breath. "So he knew."

"Yes," Matthew replied. "And he agreed to return as chief executive officer to replace Patrick."

Mary was not sure she'd heard him. "CEO?" she said.

"Yes," he replied.

"He's seventy-six."

"And here you were saying how ridiculous I was for wanting to get rid of him." he said with a smile.

"No, I mean he can't want that grind again. Really? He's agreed?"

"Only if there's a change at number two."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Well, he hates Rafe Mortimer." She was silent for a moment. _So that's why he's bringing in someone new._

There was a soft knock and Alastair stepped in, a rueful smile on his face. "So you're still stuck with me," he said to Mary, who grinned back at him as he looked at Matthew. "What did she say?"

"She thinks you're too old."

"I didn't mean that." Mary glared at Matthew.

"I am too old." Alastair lowered himself into a chair.

Mary looked at Alastair. "You're all right with this?"

"Only if you are," he replied.

"You're replacing Rafe," she said. "I'm thrilled about that."

Alastair snorted. "He was happy to go." His dark eyes fixed on hers. "So what do you think?"

"About you being in charge?"

"No," he said, a slight confusion in his voice and he looked at Matthew.

"I hadn't gotten that far yet," Matthew began, and he looked at Mary. "I'd like you to take over as group finance director."

She did not speak, her fingers twisting into her jacket as she stared back at him. _Group finance director..._

"I hoped we could talk about why, and what I'm expecting, but we're in a bit of a bind here with that headline all over the FT, and since I don't want to see a negative impact on late trading by not responding to that story, I need to know now." He ruffled his hair again and grinned at her, and the urge to slap him disappeared, replaced by a sensation she did not care to think about.

_Group finance director. Number two behind the CEO, on both the board and the executive committee, the power to turn the ship around. _Her gaze dropped to Alastair. "Was this your idea?"

"All his," Alastair said softly. "Of course, I approve." He leaned forward. "Mary, this should have happened before. Take it. I'm going to need you."

She smiled at him, distractedly, all of it still quite unreal. _Group finance director. No Patrick to answer to. Her father, powerless. Fix it. I can fix it. _There was no other answer she could give except the one she was about to give, and yet it was all still incomprehensible.

"Mary," Matthew's voice broke through her fog. "What about it?"

"Why not?" she replied.

A soft whoop could be heard outside the door.

Matthew started to laugh, and Mary shot him an exasperated look. "I don't know what yours is like, but he's a walking sitcom."

"Mine's like a French chat show," he said.

"Mine," Alastair said as he stood up, "is probably dead from boredom. She's not going to appreciate actual work again. Come to think of it, I don't remember the last time I saw her. I think she might have retired. As I was supposed to." He leaned down and kissed Mary on the cheek. "Congratulations, my dear. We don't deserve you."

"Careful," she said. "That could mean a lot of things."

"It means only one thing, Mary." He looked at her with such unabashed happiness that she blushed with pride. _He believed in me. Believes in me. _

Alastair looked at Matthew. "I think we ought to reconvene before five and discuss Monday."

"Agreed. Three?" Mary nodded, and as Alastair strolled out, Matthew held out his hand to Mary. "I'm glad. I'm sorry it wasn't tidier, but I'm glad you're with us. You're very important to the success of this firm, and I'm... it just means a great deal that you're willing to take this chance with me."

She took his hand, and grasped it, and something she had not felt in a long time flickered deep inside. "Why this?" she asked, and he did not let go of her hand.

"It worked when he was in charge. When he wasn't, it didn't. You said it yourself, he knows this culture. He IS this company's culture. No one else here would know how to take us out of this mess." He could have sworn she squeezed his hand slightly, and he was not going to be the one to let go. "And I've been led to understand that no one in this town could figure out why you were passed over."

She must have imagined it, that he gripped her hand just a little tighter. "The people here thought it was a bad idea."

"Bad idea?" _Had she taken a step forward?_

"A very bad idea." _Was he closer? _

Her iPhone pinged, and just as quickly as it began, the moment was gone, and she let go of his hand with a smile. "But now the people who did pass me over are out. The ones you've agreed to dine with on Sunday, by the way."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have lied and said I had plans."

"No, it's all right. You'll learn a lot about who you're dealing with." She paused. "I'm sorry you witnessed that. I don't let it come to the office very often." Her eyebrow tilted up ever so slightly. "And it's always better if you don't lie, no matter how uncomfortable it makes people."

This time it was his iPhone pinging and she rolled her eyes. "What my great-grandfather would have thought of iPhones..."

He glanced at the text, and grinned. "The FT is updated." He slipped the phone back in his pocket. "What would he have thought?"

"The idea of always being reachable probably would have killed him," she said. "Let me know where to meet for the three o'clock?"

"My office," he said. "The view's almost as lovely as yours."

She nodded and watched him walk away. _Bad idea _popped unbidden in her mind and she felt a flush across her cheeks as she sat down at her desk and opened up the FT website.

_UPDATE – MARTIN BACK ON TOP AT CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE._

The first line told her she was the new Group Finance Director, but she couldn't read any more than that, because the photograph made her stop cold. _Was it deliberate? _"Greg?" she called out.

He leaned it, a grin on his face. "Congratulations. I get a raise, right?"

"Shut up," she said. "Maybe. And thank you. Have you ever let the FT in here? Or any photographer?"

He was instantly serious. "Are you kidding me?"

"No," she said. "Because I don't know how else the FT photographer comes up with this."

And they looked first at the website, at the bright color image of Matthew Crawley behind the old wooden lectern, the angle such that she was the person seated immediately to his left, her eyes tilting up to him, a small smile on her face, a smile that she did not remember ever allowing to emerge during that press conference, a smile that seemed almost triumphant. Greg's eyes met hers, the shock apparent as they looked up at the faded black and white photograph framed on her opposite wall, of Matthew Crawley behind the then-new wooden lectern, and his wife, Lady Mary Crawley, her eyes gazing up at her husband, a small, triumphant smile on her face.

* * *

><p>"Five o'clock," Aurelie said softly as she entered the office. "You still haven't told me where to make reservations for tonight."<p>

"Nowhere," Matthew replied from the depths of his Eames chair. His feet were up and he was staring out the window at the dark blue sky, hands folded, his iPad ignored on his knees, and Aurelie rolled her eyes.

"But you should celebrate. The stock is already up and everyone is talking about the wise young Matthew Crawley. You should be seen tonight."

"It's too early to celebrate," he said. "I'm just going to head out in a few."

"What do you need for the weekend?"

"Nothing," he said, and unfolded himself from the chair. "You should get settled into your new place. I'll call if I need anything."

"All right," she said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

She looked at him critically, and he sighed. "What?"

"It's black tie. Wear the Ralph Lauren," she said. "Sunday, I mean. And don't ride your motorcycle."

"Wasn't planning on it." He looked outside. "How cold is it right now?"

"Freezing," she said. "You should take a car tonight. I'll order it now."

"I will," he said. "Thank you, Aurelie. For everything."

She nodded, and if he'd looked at that moment, he would have seen the pride she took in that praise, but he didn't, and she put back her insouciant mask as she strolled out.

He wondered if Mary would drive home in the cold, knowing the soft tops on the Shelbys weren't exactly windproof, and the vision of her behind that wheel made him feel something he hadn't felt in a while, and for whatever reason, the words _bad idea_ came back into his head.

* * *

><p>"Five o'clock," Greg called into the office. "You still haven't told me where to make reservations tonight."<p>

"Nowhere," she said quietly. Her shoes were off, and she'd tucked her feet underneath her as she stared out over the lights of London.

"You have to go out and celebrate." He walked in. "You've gotten fourteen flower deliveries, wine, chocolates, tea... everyone thinks you should celebrate. You should celebrate." He sat on the edge of her desk, ignoring her glare. "You just got a promotion and your archnemesis has been humiliated."

"Karmically speaking, that's the worst time for a celebration," she muttered. "And I have dinner plans." She uncurled from her desk chair and slipped her iPad into her Mulberry. "Can you call downstairs and have them put up the top on the car?"

"It's freezing. You shouldn't drive."

"It's not far and I'm going straight home. And I might want it this weekend." She looked again at the old photograph on the wall and shivered. "And why am I explaining myself to you?"

"Because you know I care." He stood up. "What do you need for the weekend?"

"Nothing," she said. "You should celebrate. Take the wine. Enjoy your weekend. I'll call if I need you. Thank you, Greg. I couldn't have survived today without you."

"Of course you couldn't," he replied, his proud smile belying his flippant answer. "You're welcome."

She wondered, as she slipped on her coat and tied her scarf a little tighter, if Matthew would brave the cold on his BMW, and the thought of him in the leathers again made her shiver again, but not from the cold.

_Bad idea_, she thought to herself. _Very bad idea... _

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thank you again for your kind reviews and comments. Expect the chapters to come much faster now. Another album to add to the soundtrack... this is "Eyes Be Closed" from Washed Out._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 5?**_  
><em>

It was too cold, even with the soft top, and Mary regretted not letting Greg order a car to take her home, especially considering the traffic was an absolute nightmare. She idly revved the engine and found herself wishing that she'd run into Matthew in the garage. The motorcycle was still there, and she imagined he'd probably taken a car home, or out to celebrate, although strangely, after that afternoon's meeting with Alastair, she did not see him as the celebratory type. Much as he had done in that morning's board/executive committee meeting, he had mostly listened in this meeting, the three of them drinking tea and coffee while they planned the next three months. She grinned as she thought of Alastair, of the quiet man she had grown up around suddenly coming alive again, his mind untangling the mess left by Patrick and her father, knowing what would be needed and how to ask for it to be done. "You'll never work harder than this," he had murmured to her as they left Matthew's office. "This is going to be incredibly difficult."

Mary _liked_ difficult.

The traffic began to thin out, and as she shifted into gear, a motorcycle engine whined next to her. Her heart leapt traitorously and she laughed at herself. It wasn't him, of course, and she made the last turn alone this time, trying hard not to think of what Matthew Crawley was doing that night.

The apartment, usually dark save for the studio, was filled with light and savory smells, and before Mary could even put down her bag, a pair of small, slim arms were around her. At first, she could barely breathe from the tightness of the hug, and then she could barely breathe from the emotion it awakened. "Oh, Eddie," she whispered. "When's the last time you hugged me?" _Or smiled like that_, she thought to herself as her sister grinned up at her, tugging at her hand and leading the way into the kitchen. Mary noted that her sister's limp had improved and she was barely using the stick, but kept her observation to herself. Eddie did not ever refer to her therapy, or acknowledge any mention of it, and if she had her sister smiling tonight, and cooking, she was not about to ruin it. "What are we having?"

Eddie typed on the wireless keyboard embedded into the counter. **Spaghetti with clams **scrolled across the mounted display. **It's almost ready. Go look at what I painted for you.**

It was hilarious, a small, intense watercolour rendering of a Flemish still life, all dead animals and pewter plates, surrounding a shocking pink cupcake with "congratulations" scrawled across it. Very tiny people were trying to eat it. It was Eddie humour at its best, and Mary squealed with delight. "Darling, it's brilliant." She brought it back into the kitchen.

**What's he like?**

"Matthew Crawley?" she asked.

**No, Jon Hamm. Yes, you idiot. Matthew Crawley. I know you hated him last night, but after today**...

She grinned again, and pulled up the front page of the Financial Times. It was a different picture, for which Mary was grateful. **He fixed everything, Mary.**

"He's started to fix it, Eddie. It's a long way to go to be fixed. And it's partly my job to fix it." She tasted the sauce and earned a slap on the hand as her sister's eyebrow, as fair as hers was dark, raised ominously.

"I didn't answer the question." Eddie approved of that answer, and Mary poured herself a glass of wine. "Well, clearly he has marvelous judgment if he chose me and Alastair to run things." Her mind flashed back to the motorcycle, to those leathers. "What else do you want to know?"

Eddie's eyes rolled and she tossed the pasta into the pan before returning to the keyboard. **What's he LIKE?**

"You've seen the pictures." _His fingers raking through that hair... _She took a long sip of the wine. "Granny Violet seems to think the name alone makes him look her father."

**He does. Especially the eyes. **

"Barely."

**If by barely, you mean the way you barely look like Lady Mary. **Edith returned to the pan and expertly dished out two plates, and nodded at the bottle of wine.

"Shut up," Mary said sweetly and poured her sister a glass. "He's... oh, I don't know. Smart. Confident, obviously, but he's not a jerk about it. He..." She sat down opposite Eddie and they raised their glasses in silence, first to each other, then to the painting on the opposite wall. "He listens," she finished softly. "And you know how rare that is."

Eddie regarded her sister as Mary began to eat. The artist in her saw the fine bones of her cheeks and nose, the faint shadow underneath the dark eyes that spoke of little sleep and much anxiety. The painter saw the delicately arched brows across an expanse of white skin, partly obscured by the thick curtain of hair, the mouth that always seemed sad, and the grace of her movements. The sister in her saw a calmness she had not seen in Mary in years, the agitation of constant anger fading before her eyes. The Mary of yesterday, literally yesterday, would have barely touched the food, would have pushed the wine aside, would have gone into her library and blasted Fauré or Handel or that suicidally awful chillwave stuff until she fell asleep, clutching an old book. This Mary was digging into the fresh clams with relish, a little hum of happiness coming from deep in her chest as she licked her fingers, a childlike gesture that made Eddie laugh. At that sound, her sister's head came up, and Eddie impulsively leaned forward to kiss her sister's cheek, and then pretended not to see the tears in Mary's eyes as she tore into her own clams.

* * *

><p>She returned to painting as soon as dinner was over, taking the rest of the bottle of wine with a grin on her face and left Mary to the dishes. Eddie's artistic nature also made her a bit of a mess in the kitchen, and not for the first time, Mary wished she and Eddie weren't quite so stubborn about their private lives. As much as she loved the fact that besides family and Jemma, only a longtime cleaner and Eddie's therapists crossed this threshold, sometimes it seemed as if it might be nicer to have someone else pick up the mess at night. <em>But no<em>, she thought as she began rinsing pans. _Maman would not approve. Maman's girls could take care of themselves. Maman's girls would never have to depend on others. _Mary's eyes rose to the painting that hung on the opposite wall, and she felt her throat close as she looked at the laughing dark eyes, captured so perfectly that it seemed Céline Desrosiers Crawley was still there, watching her girls, instead of buried in the cold churchyard at Downton.

A soft ping from her iPhone startled her. _Stories are up,_ Greg's text read. _I know you hate reading about yourself, but you should see them. _ She gave the counter one last swipe, washed and dried her hands, and then, with a deep breath, opened the FT site on the kitchen computer. She skipped the front page writeups and went straight for the analysis.

**EVERYTHING OLD IS NEW AGAIN AT CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE**

_**Alastair Martin back as CEO as Matthew Crawley takes helm of board. But are his moves wise or risky? **_

_**By Daniela Park**_

_The new chairman of Crawley Martin Thorpe's board wasted no time in shaking up the management, moving former CEO Alastair Martin back into the seat from which he retired nearly ten years ago. He switches places with Patrick Thorpe, who will assume his place on the board. It feels both bold and safe to see a man everyone still thinks of as a financial genius once again running the firm he led so wisely for so long, and investors agreed as the stock soared in late trading Friday. Add to that the removal of Rafe Mortimer, whose odd decision last spring to jettison the mergers advisory unit was just one of many stumbles, and the hiring of John Howland from US giant Bosworth Standish for chief of risk management, and you have the makings of the kind of intelligent change we haven't seen in the financial world since 2008._

_But keeping Thorpe after his disastrous turn as CEO feels like a pander to the family rather than a move designed to preserve continuity, and the retention of Rob Crawley as a kind of chairman emeritus feels hollow as well, and potentially damaging to future moves if Matthew Crawley has any inclination to respect family wishes when it comes to decisions. It remains to be seen if these two men can play as part of a team instead of running it, and it remains to be seen if Matthew Crawley (no relation, we're led to understand) can navigate the pitfalls that come with a family business._

_It also remains to be seen how successful Mary Crawley will be in her new role as Group Finance Director. She returned to her family's firm after a brief stint at Heidelmann-McIntyre's Tokyo office, where she showed extraordinary talent in both risk assessment and fund management, and her rise at this firm seemed even faster until 2009 when the FSA and the SEC both began looking into reports of insider trading and corporate misconduct that tied Crawley Martin Thorpe to the collapse of Heidelmann-McIntyre. Nothing came of the investigation, but when Rob Crawley assumed the full-time role of chairman, his choice of Thorpe to be CEO came as something of a shock, and led many to think that perhaps there was more to the story that tied Mary Crawley to the investigation. Yet in the two and a half years since that investigation, the mistakes have come from Thorpe, and not Mary Crawley. _

_This paper has reported extensively on the last year inside Crawley Martin Thorpe, through documents obtained from an anonymous source and confirmed as accurate that indicated recommendations made by Mary Crawley, then chief of risk management, were pointedly ignored by Thorpe, Mortimer, and Rob Crawley, even though each of those recommendations would have saved the company much of the trouble they're in today. She proved herself time and again as these documents indicate, and our analysts agree that she is likely the strongest talent inside the firm. But group finance director is a very different game from risk management, and this may be the position and person to watch as Crawley Martin Thorpe moves forward. The success of these changes depends in no small part on the success of the heir to the Crawley Martin Thorpe dynasty, and that is Mary Crawley._

* * *

><p>Matthew Crawley leaned back and snapped his iPad shut with a grin. He knew he was right about Alastair, and he knew he was right about John, and Mary. He didn't need to be told by Dany at the FT, or the WSJ or CNBC that he'd made the right decision. It was nice, however, to see it in print, and to see it in the final Friday reports. It would make Monday all the easier, the scrutiny that much easier to take, even as he knew that scrutiny would be brutal. "She can take it," he said to himself as he stood up and stretched. He shouldn't be this tired, but the day had gotten to him, and the steak he'd made for himself had a soporific effect he wasn't expecting. So he ignored the dozen texts from Ben that followed his simple "No," and showered instead, reveling in the heat that eased the unusual tension across his back. He idly thought of Mary at that moment, wondering how she'd celebrated that night, convinced she'd find it funny that he'd cooked and eaten alone. <em>At least I won't be eating alone on Sunday night,<em> he thought as he crawled into bed. His eyes were closing when his iPhone rang.

"No," he said.

"You don't even know what I'm asking." The voice was soft and it made him grin.

"Hello, Alice," he replied.

"Hello yourself. Are you already in bed?"

"Yes. Long day, if you haven't seen the papers." He pushed himself to a sitting position.

"Oh, I saw them. Well done. You've convinced another roomful of idiots that you're the least idiotic among them. When are you coming up to see me? This is the important question."

"Tomorrow? I don't have anything planned until Sunday night."

"Oooh, what's Sunday night?"

"Dinner at the Crawleys' home. They apparently do a big party for Remembrance Day."

Alice snorted. "My dear brother, watch out. They'll eat you up. Especially that dark-haired one. She looks feral."

"Mary Crawley?"

"Yes, that one. Didn't she go to Clare? I seem to remember her being an absolute ice queen at bops." He could hear Alice's voice go quite smug.

"Not everyone can be Miss Popularity, Alice. I imagine she found studying preferable to bops, considering she ended up with a first."

Alice laughed. "So did I, and I smiled occasionally. I see how this is going to go. Well, Matthew, just remember what the mama always says in 'Moonstruck.'"

"You like that movie. I've never seen it."

"Liar. I've made you watch it."

"I didn't listen."

"You never do."

"I need my sleep, Alice. Go bother your husband. Tell him hello and I'll see you both tomorrow." He burrowed back down in the bed.

"All right." She paused. "She said 'don't shit where you eat.'"

He hung up the phone and rolled over.

* * *

><p>The phrase danced through his mind again as the car came to an elegant stop right in front of a relatively enormous mansion in Belgravia, white without looking like a wedding cake, and ablaze with light. The butler, an elderly man with a disapproving tilt to his eyebrows, was unsurprisingly something of a cliché, insisting upon announcing him as he entered, and Matthew found himself in a library, fire-lit and unexpectedly cozy.<p>

"Welcome to the war room." The dry, deep voice came from inside the oversized settee in front of the fireplace, and Matthew walked around it to find Mary and a younger man, as fair as she was dark and impossibly tall. "You must be Cousin Matthew," the younger man said with a grin.

"Percy, stop. Matthew, this is Percy Martin. He works for you. Head of banking technologies. Percy, this is Matthew Crawley."

The two men shook hands, and Percy unwound himself from the sofa. "I'm also the war room DJ and mixologist. What can I get you?"

"Nothing yet. Thanks." Percy shrugged and wandered over to the bar. Matthew sat on the old leather chair opposite Mary and looked around the room. "This is lovely."

She followed his gaze. "It's the only room I like in this house." She took a sip of her drink and her eyebrow flicked up at him. "Sure you don't need one?"

"Not yet. Where is everyone?"

Percy handed him a glass. "Water. They're in the drawing room. We usually don't go in until the last possible minute. Tonight is extra special, however." He looked down at Mary. "She thought it best if you came in here first so we could prepare you."

"Prepare?"

"Pretend we're Debrett's Peerage," Percy sat down. "You should know what you're walking into."

And Matthew began to wish he'd taken that drink after all, as Mary and Percy, who he now realized were actually cousins, took him around the photographs on the mantelpiece. He already knew Rob Crawley, but he was about to meet Crawley's wife, Charlotte Thorpe Crawley, Patrick's aunt and Mary's stepmother for the past twelve years. Patrick, would be there, of course, and his wife Nicola, who Mary dismissed with a wave of her hand. Violet Martin, Percy's grandmother, and Percy's parents, James and Sarah rounded out the party.

"Ordinarily we'd be two more in here, fortifying ourselves against the storm." Percy put down his glass. "Sybil and her husband Felix. But someone has this thing about integrity."

"Sybil Maier at the Guardian?"

Mary nodded. "If it's family only, she'll come. Anyone else, she won't."

"I wish I'd said no, then. I'm sorry. This should just be family."

"Oh no," Mary said softly and put her hand on his arm. "Truly, it's all right. You couldn't have known"

_Was it the drink,_ he wondered, _or something else that made her do that?_ For a moment, everything was quiet, the crackle of the fire filling his ears, and something else filling his chest as he watched the light flicker across her eyes.

* * *

><p>Violet knew she was old, but she didn't think she was so old that she'd be seeing things. Yet she was seeing things, it seemed, as she stood at the door of the library, the scolding of Percy and Mary for hiding all but forgotten as she looked at the three of them standing before the fireplace. Her mind told her it was 2011, that she was seventy-seven years old, but her heart beat as if she was five years old again, as if she was standing in this very room, watching her older brother tell her parents he was going off to fight. She had always thought Percy was rather like her beloved Reggie, and in a dinner jacket, the likeness was uncanny.<p>

But she had seen that before, just as she had seen how Mary, born just three weeks after the death of Lady Mary Crawley, had always resembled the woman for whom she was named. Tonight, in a wine velvet dress, one pale shoulder exposed and her dark hair loosely knotted at the back of her neck, the similarities were unnerving. Nothing, however, could be more unnerving than _him._

He was taller and more physically imposing than her own father had been, but the shape under that perfectly tailored dinner jacket was the same. The hair was not as fair, but the eyes were just as blue, the slight frown as he looked toward the door so like her father's that her breath caught and she could not speak as she took in the full picture. It wasn't just the looks, she realized. It was this Matthew's instinctive, slight shift at the sound of the door, a shift that put him a few inches in front of Mary, a barely discernible move that revealed a subconscious protectiveness, something she had always known in her father, something her own darling husband had done, and as much as she liked to believe she didn't _need_ protecting, there was something utterly lovely about knowing someone _wanted _to, and it struck her that her great-niece, who would bristle at the slightest indication she was weak, had her hand on this young man's arm, and she had not moved it.

"Hullo, Granny." Percy spoke first. "Come to scold us for stealing Matthew?"

"Yes," she managed to say. "But it's too late for that. We're going into dinner, and I need my escort." Percy stepped forward, but Violet waved him away. "You take Mary in. Matthew is my dinner partner this evening."

Mary dropped her hand suddenly, as if she realized what she was doing, and Matthew smiled at Violet. "Shall we?" he asked as he offered his arm.

His smile was infectious, just as her own father's had been, and Violet could look serious no longer as she took his arm. "Good luck tonight," she said.

"Do you think I need it?" he murmured as he held the door for her.

"Yes," she replied.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks again for reviewing and alerting and coming along for the ride. This is a strong T for language. Thanks as always to Eolivet and ARCurren for their help. Dinner is served._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 6?**

_Was there a mathematical formula to measure seething? Or tension? Could I apply the Nash equilibrium to tonight's events? Ten players... _Mary gently forked up the oyster nestled next to the caviar in her first course and wondered what Matthew thought of it.

"She was a _sous _at Per Se in New York," Charlotte murmured to Matthew. "And we just had to have her. Thomas Keller trained her himself. I don't suppose you've ever been to any of his restaurants."

Mary flinched as Matthew gently assured her stepmother that yes, he had eaten many times at Per Se when he lived in New York and he, too, would like to steal one of their chefs. His eye flicked to the opposite end of the table as he said it, and their eyes met briefly. _Sorry,_ she thought, and the corners of his mouth twitched before he looked away.

She had not intended to waylay him before the dinner to tell him what to expect, but as she'd been getting dressed earlier that evening, the memory of how he'd looked at her when he said the words _group finance director_ and how he'd listened to her and to Alastair during their planning meeting made her want to smooth his way. Like before, he had listened, asked a few pertinent questions (_why didn't James go into the family business? why doesn't Alastair ever come?)_, and she could see how, in the beginnings of the incredibly banal conversation at Charlotte's end of the table, that he had absorbed the information, processed it, and was now using it to his full advantage to charm both her stepmother and Granny Violet, who seemed utterly smitten.

There was one question he hadn't asked, and she dreaded it, knowing when his gaze had rested upon a photograph taken _that summer_ of three girls, herself a gangly half-formed teenager, her sisters still children, the peculiarly golden sunlight of the south of France glinting off their skin, that he had deliberately chosen not to ask anything, but it would not be forgotten in his mind.

* * *

><p>Matthew was glad he hadn't drunk anything before the meal, not so much because he needed a clear head at this moment, but because he would need one later to fully assess just how much of a snake pit he'd wandered into.<p>

These people were... well, _evil _wasn't exactly the right word. _Calculating, shallow, grasping _all came to mind, but nothing could quite pin down the slithery feeling he got in talking with them. _Some of them_, he amended. Percy was friendly, but just as much on guard as Mary was in this room. Charlotte was exactly as he'd expected, even before the cram session, hard and polished, with a mouth that told one story and eyes quite another. James and Sarah Martin were all right, if a little dull, and while James had avoided investment banking, he was one of those highly successful management consultant types who advocated the kind of unsympathetic business practices that were now under scrutiny. Nicola was a younger, glossier clone of Charlotte with about one tenth the brains, and Patrick... Patrick was droning on and on to Rob about a not-yet-published book by someone he'd met in New York, about how it was going to be the Atlas Shrugged of this generation, and Matthew had to keep himself from laughing. _That's not praise,_ he thought, and glanced at Mary again, who was focused on the delicate beet and bitter greens salad. He found himself thinking back to that photograph in the library, the one Mary moved behind the others a little too quickly, the sunlit one in which three girls smiled with unrestrained joy at the woman taking the picture, the woman whose reflection could be seen in the stone-bordered window behind a teenaged Mary. At some point, Charlotte had replaced that woman in their father's heart, and clearly never in Mary's. He couldn't blame her. He turned to his other dinner companion, Violet, and found her staring at him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just very disconcerting in this house tonight. You, Mary..." She looked at Percy, who grinned and raised his glass to her. "Percy looks like my brother."

"Robert?"

Her eyes went soft. "Reggie. We lost him in the war."

"When did he die?"

"1944. Eight weeks before the end. Eight weeks... Robbie was badly hurt in 1941 and invalided out, but Reggie..." She looked at the end of the table, at Rob and Patrick scornfully discussing the Occupy movement and she sighed.

"What was he like?"

"Handsome. Funny. So bright. He was blond, like Papa, but he looked so exactly like Mamma and he had her same sense of justice. She called him her.." She broke off. "I'm boring you. No one should have to listen to an old woman like me tell stories." Her bright eyes focused on his. "Old women like me should listen to young men's stories. Like yours, for example."

He grinned over the top of his water glass. "They didn't give you a briefing book?"

"I know what they know," she said. "I want to hear you tell it."

And so he did tell her stories, about his quiet childhood in Kent, his years at school, his disappointment that he was far better at philosophy than cricket, and his parents' death when he was nineteen, which left him with custody of his fifteen-year-old sister Alice. "She's a fellow at Caius now, so I probably didn't do too much damage."

"Well done," she said, just as Mary let out a disgusted sigh.

"You cannot be serious, Patrick."

"He's right. Income inequality is actually better for the economy."

"In what way?"

Patrick spoke slowly and deliberately, and Matthew could feel Mary's teeth begin to clench, even as her face remained perfectly neutral. "The richest can support innovation and take risks, and those risks create the products that benefit everyone else."

"Which product did you create?"

The table went silent, all staring at Mary, who was smiling at Patrick, perfectly calm. "If you say you created product by making risky investments, we have several clients who might disagree."

"We provide the capital that drives innovation."

"Yes we do, and I'm proud of that, but you seem to forget if that innovation fails, you and I don't see our retirement fund go down the drain. The risk you think you're so brave and smart for taking isn't usually with your money, and that's what you've forgotten over the last two years, and what this company has forgotten over the last ten years and frankly, what the entire industry has forgotten."

Rob raised his hand, but Mary didn't take a breath. "And even when you risk your own money, at the end of it, you're still far better off than nearly 100 percent of the population. You honestly believe society is better if you're paid 16 million pounds a year versus 8 million pounds? And don't give me that line about how we spend money and create jobs, because you'd still spend money and create jobs at 8 million pounds as opposed to 16, and you wouldn't create twice the jobs and spend twice the money. Nicola might try, but you know it doesn't happen."

"I don't see you trying to hand back any of your salary, Mary." Rob lifted his glass and drained what Matthew believed was his second glass of wine.

"I'm not sitting here justifying it by pretending to be improving the world one bonus at a time," she answered. "And you know very well I'd give up every penny of it."

"No you wouldn't." Patrick's voice rose. "You're sitting there in thousands of dollars worth of clothes, you drive that ridiculous car, and you live in what might be the single most expensive apartment ever built in the city of London. You cannot tell me you'd give that all up."

"I would," she said, quite softly, and Matthew had to strain to hear her. "And you know, and Papa knows exactly for what... whom... I'd give it up."

No one had any response, and it was fortuitous that Charlotte had hired a chef with a propensity to serve many, many tiny dishes, because at that moment yet another course came through which meant no one had to speak as they nibbled at the tiny medallions of foie gras with five types of salt and fig jam.

* * *

><p>"Mary, how is Sybil?" Sarah broke the silence as the plates were whisked away. "I notice her byline on the Downing Street stories all the time."<p>

"She could have told you herself," Robert said sullenly. "You told Sybil to come, didn't you, Mary?"

"I told her you'd demanded her presence."

His glass slammed down on the table. "I ask very little of her, but I ask this one thing every year and she chooses to ignore me."

"She asks only one thing of you, Papa, and you failed her. Correction. She's asked but two things of you and you won't listen."

"I'm supposed to know what that second thing is?"

Mary's cheeks flamed. "Everyone at this table knows, Papa."

Matthew did not, but he said nothing, watching as Rob stared at his daughter, his body shaking in anger. Mary did not shake, her eyes calmly meeting Rob's as the staff placed the next course in front of them, which turned out to be, rather incredibly, American-style peanut butter and jam with toasted brioche. She was the first to dig in, slathering the creamy butter across the bread and topping it with the jam. "Really, Charlotte, this is outstanding. Well done."

Matthew felt a wild burst of something he could not describe, something like fierce pride and camaraderie, far deeper than he should feel about someone he'd only known for not quite seventy two hours.

_Well done,_ he thought.

Mary had no idea where they were in the menu, if there were five more courses or seven. Sarah, bless her, was at least trying to change the subject, bringing up mutual friends who had finally purchased a house on Mustique, after waiting for years to do so. She let the conversation turn to holidays, asking politely after Sarah's own plans for New Year's, allowing the discussion to happen around her so she could pull back and observe Matthew for a few moments as he talked to Violet. They were the most animated at the table, and she found it lovely that he seemed to be genuinely interested in what she had to say. She was sorry he'd witnessed more of the insanity, but it couldn't be helped. She wasn't about to let Patrick get away with any idiocy, and her father... Mary idly wondered if she should start calling him Rob instead of Papa, since it had been twelve years since she'd felt anything but loathing for him.

"I am quite glad you've seen fit to change things," Violet murmured as the butter poached lobster disappeared, replaced by miniature cuts of lamb, at which she simply raised her eyebrows. "Honestly, this stream of tiny things is pointless. I can't tell if I'm hungry or not anymore, and no living creature should want to eat chicken, lobster, fish, lamb, and pork in one sitting. I'm tempted to become a vegetarian just to spite her. God knows how many puddings they'll expect us to eat." She poked at the lamb and shook her head. "Charlotte, explain to me again why chefs think flavored foam is a good idea? I fail to see the point of it."

Mary began to laugh, which made Charlotte flush angrily. "I don't see why it needs a point," she muttered.

"Forgive me," Violet replied. "I am old." She left her fork and knife at the sides of the plate and turned back to Matthew. "Mary's a rather good cook herself. Her mother..." She broke off. "Is it fashionable for young women to be good at domestic things? I never know anymore. It used to be the highest form of insult to mention it. Now with all those cooking shows and Nigella Lawson clones, I can't quite tell what to say about it."

"I take it her mother taught her to cook?"

"She taught her a great many things. Mary is who she is because of her mother." She picked up her wine glass and sipped delicately at it before muttering "Céline was far too good for Rob and Mary knew it, even when she was young."

He looked back down the table at Mary, as she smiled and nodded at Sarah, and then as her head suddenly lifted and she looked directly at him.

She had never seen such a look on any man's face. His eyes were soft, the blue unreal in the candlelight, and the expression was not one of sympathy, or amazement, or silly adoration, or lust, or any of the dozens of other ways men had always looked at her. It was _pride,_ as if somehow he had the right to be proud of her, and at first she bristled at such a presumption.

But then he smiled, a small thing, a friendly thing, a conspiratorial kind of smile, and once again that feeling she did not want to acknowledge began to curl deep inside her and she could not help but smile back.

And for a time, while conversations happened around them, they sneaked quick looks at one another, seeking a reaction to Nicola's monologue on her brilliant baby Wills, or on James' lamenting over American union laws, or Sarah's valiant attempts to steer the conversations into inoffensive areas, and every time it was as if they were speaking, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, as if she could hear him say _ridiculous. _She let an eyebrow arch ever so slightly at him, and as he responded with one eye rolling in, she looked away quickly so she wouldn't laugh, and noticed that Patrick, now oddly silent, was watching her.

"Oh, for God's sake, Charlotte." Violet's plaintive cry silenced everyone. "This is the third dessert."

* * *

><p>"And this," Violet said softly. "This was all of us at Christmas in 1938." She stroked the frame gently, and Matthew silently marveled at how much Percy did look like Reggie. Mary, on the other hand, did resemble her great-grandmother, but her features were finer and more delicate than the woman in the photograph. He still couldn't see much of himself in the stern-faced Matthew Crawley, but he was apparently in the minority. The butler, who had brought a snifter of cognac for Violet without asking, had agreed with her when asked if he didn't resemble her father. "He was a footman at Downton and valeted my father," she murmured as he walked away. "He would know if you looked like him."<p>

It didn't really make sense to argue with her, since Mary now seemed to be avoiding him as they all sipped at after-dinner drinks in the vast drawing room, and he couldn't see himself having much of a conversation with anyone else save Percy, who had just been cornered by his father. Mary, who had been speaking with Sarah, was now alone, looking at the window as if she wanted to jump from it, and he wondered at why she would not look at him now.

_Stupid,_ she thought, _to let Patrick see. _She had texted Greg to get the car there early so she could leave as soon as the first after-dinner drinks were finished, so she could avoid speaking to Matthew again. Patrick was a terrible financier, but brilliant at using people's own actions against them, and she did not want to give him any opportunity. Matthew was with Violet, who was presumably giving him enough family history to last a lifetime. She wished suddenly that she had drunk more at dinner, wished she could drink something now to take this edge off now, but the idea of a brandy sickened her as it always had, and when she could smell it coming toward her, she felt that twisting fear in her gut.

"So," Patrick said as he leaned toward her. "How's Eddie?"

Violet had begun to tell him a rather fantastic story about a scandal involving her mother when she stopped with a gasp and looked past him. The room was silent, everyone looking at the same thing, at Patrick and Mary standing by the windows. Patrick was drunk, and Matthew realized Mary was the colour of ash.

"It's a simple question, Mary."

"I heard you." Mary stepped past Patrick and walked toward the door. "Charlotte, thank you for dinner. I must be going."

"Tell Eddie I said hello," Patrick called after her as the door shut.

"You useless fuck," Percy said quietly.

Patrick did not reply.

The door re-opened, and every head swiveled, expecting anyone but the elderly butler, who pronounced in sonorous tones that Mr. Matthew Crawley's car had arrived.

"Excellent timing," Violet murmured and smiled at him. "It was lovely to dine with you. I'm quite sure we'll be seeing more of each other."

"Of course," he replied. He made his goodbyes to the rest of the room, save for Patrick, who had flopped into a chair and somehow procured another brandy.

_Useless fuck._

* * *

><p>He heard it when the butler disappeared, the agonized sob presumably muffled by a hand, and he followed it to the library where he'd first seen her. This time it was dark, save for the embers of the fire, which cast her shadow across the room, her shoulders curled as she held on to the mantelpiece.<p>

"Mary," he whispered, causing her to jump as her head whipped around to look at him. "Mary, take my car. It's already here."

She shook her head. "I'm fine, Matthew. Go." She let a ghost of a smile cross her face. "Escape while you can," she said wryly. "You were very quiet at dinner."

He chuckled. "You had everything in hand. That was a nice takedown of Patrick at dinner. A very sound argument."

"You don't agree with him, do you?"

"No. I know what book he's talking about. The author is a financial genius, but a sorry excuse for a human. There's a failure on the part of those who have ease of opportunity to understand that not everyone has that opportunity. Also, he's thinks a market economy is not enough. He likes a market society in which everything can be bought and sold." He walked around the settee and looked at the mantel, at the wild array of photographs again. "I don't think I have more than ten pictures of my family. Old family," he amended. "My sister took quite a few of the two of us, though. That's something money can't buy." His hand came to rest in front of the one she'd moved earlier and she watched as he extracted it from the clutter. "I think you'd agree with that." He touched the smallest of the three sisters. "She's not in my briefing book," he said softly.

She snatched it from him.

"Is that Eddie?"

Mary replaced the picture carefully. "That's Edith, yes."

"Edith," he repeated. "Eddie. What happened to her?"

"Accident."

"Is she all right?"

Mary's laugh was short and cold. "It depends on what you mean by all right."

"Alive?"

"Yes." She retreated from the fireplace, into the darkness of the room.

"Where is she now?"

"She lives with me," Mary said.

The butler coughed gently at the door, and reminded Mr. Crawley that his car was outside, and told Mary her car had just arrived. "If you'd like your things?"

"Yes, Simpson. Thank you." The door shut, and a log fell on the grate, leaving the room in near total darkness.

"Mary, why isn't she in my briefing book?"

She was silent, and he did not know where she was until she crossed in front of the windows. "Your researchers are not very good?" she mused softly. "Or were they only concerned with the people who care about what happens to this company?"

"Possibly," he replied.

She disappeared again, and Matthew could hear doors opening and closing in the hallway. "You'd better go," she muttered. "It wouldn't do if he found us in here."

"He?" Matthew asked.

"Patrick," she said, and the light caught her eyes. "The thing you ought to know about him is that he uses people for information and then uses it against them. Or against other people. I'd rather he had to work for what he'll try to use against us."

"I see," he said. "Good to know."

"Just be careful is all." She moved again, and he could see her now, much closer. "Good night, Matthew. I'll see you tomorrow."

He felt bereft of something, dismissed in a way, as if this conversation wasn't over. "Mary.."

"Yes?"

"This is going to work."

_A promise? Or a command? _"I hope you're right," she whispered.

"You're going to make it right," he replied. "Good night, Mary."

"He was driving the car," she said suddenly. "Drunk, of course."

"What?"

"Patrick."

"When Eddie..."

"Yes."

He went cold. "And he's here in this house and she's not?"

"Yes."

He had been wrong. These people were evil.

* * *

><p>Once again, the lights were bright in the apartment, and she could hear merry laughter coming from the studio. It smelled like a Chinese takeaway and she walked into the room to find Eddie slapping paint on a canvas while Sybil and Jemma ate out of cartons. A bottle of Veuve stood open between them.<p>

"You know," Sybil was saying as Mary came in. "Art historians in the future will wonder at how to identify a true E.C and it will take a genius young scholar to realize that all they have to do is X-ray the painting to find her mark."

Mary looked at the giant canvas, which had the words **Fuck him, that fucking fuck**swirled in a strange purple hue across it and laughed. "Pour me some," she said to Jemma as she sank down next to her.

Jemma put the last of it in a clean glass. "Eddie's in a good mood."

"She's been in one all weekend. Is that why you're here?"

Jemma nodded. "She texted me to tell me you were post-gaming tonight's little dinner and I should come over and make it a real sleepover. I brought my stuff so we can do yoga at our regular time. Unless you'd rather not?"

"Oh, I need it," Mary said, and smiled as the golden, bubbly, definition-of-happiness liquid slid down her throat. "Eddie texted you..." She smiled at Sybil. "Eddie texted her."

"I know." She squeezed Mary's hand as Eddie sat down and picked up her own glass. She jerked her head back at the canvas and they read **How was it?**

Mary quashed the sickening thought of Patrick that flashed in her mind and smiled. "All right," she said. "Typical. Rob wanted to know where Sybil was, Charlotte overdid it with the new chef, and Percy says hello to both of you."

Sybil snorted. "Rob? What did Matthew think?"

"I think he's horrified by us." She took another sip. "But he charmed Granny Violet, and he was..." She broke off and stared up at the canvas again as tears came into her eyes.

"Mary?" Jemma put her hand on her back.

Mary did not know what to say. The evening had been a disaster, to be sure, but in the midst of it all, where it had been nothing but uncertainty for so long, she suddenly felt sure he was right.

"This is going to work," she said.

* * *

><p>He had not seen the new space, and when the driver pulled up to the square, industrial, frankly ugly building, he was not sure it was right, until he saw Ben walk out onto the loading dock with a glass in his hand.<p>

It was ugly inside as well, a long, greenish hallway lit by fluorescent bulbs, and Matthew was about to ask where the prisoners were kept when Ben threw open a door and waved him into a massive space, bricks and beams and incredible lights illuminating canvases and sculptures scattered around the room.

"Much better," Matthew said.

"Drink?"

"Yes."

"That bad?" Ben poured the Scotch over a pair of perfect ice cubes and handed it to Matthew.

"That bad." He sipped at it, enjoying the heat. "But Mary said something tonight... oh, never mind."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing," he said, not wanting to think about why hearing Mary Crawley say _use against __us_ meant so much to him. "What am I looking at?"

"That's the newest," Ben said, and pointed to the far wall. "Delivered yesterday. It's hopefully the first of many."

It was huge, at least ten feet tall, a canvas that Matthew couldn't help but be drawn closer to as he looked at it. It was of a woman, or perhaps a girl, whose age could not be determined. The hood was a wrap of blood around her head, the gold of the curls spilling out, her body dysmorphic, twisted in such a way that it would be impossible for her to move under her own power. Two eyes barely visible in the dark, impenetrable wood and stone twists of the background, were watching her, and noticing them, Matthew was seized with unease. There were teeth near her deformed feet, a mouth with nothing attached, and he shuddered as he looked up to the girl/woman's eyes to see an emotion he never imagined could be painted. Her body showed fear and pain, but the eyes, looking directly at him, told an entirely different kind of story.

Resignation.

"Christ," Matthew said softly. "Who did this?"

"Nobody knows," Ben replied. "Well, we know the name, but no one's seen the artist. Only twelve paintings so far. This is the latest, and the first I could get my hands on. Don't even know if it's a man or a woman, but this is all anyone can talk about right now."

"And you have to have what everyone wants, don't you?"

"Not if I don't like it." Ben looked up at it and smiled. "I have never seen anyone who can do all these things in one painting. The colours, the muscularity, the energy, the fact that you can actually feel fear looking at it. Matthew, this is like something out of time, out of the past. And whoever it is, whoever can do this is alive, right now, somewhere on this planet, and they can do _this."_

Matthew looked down in the corner, at the pair of tiny initials painted on the fluttering end of the cape. "E.C.," he said slowly.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thank you again for reviewing/alerting. A disclaimer.. I don't own the names or the ancestors. I'm only borrowing them for fun. Also, just to be clear, I'm taking liberties with airport and hotel layouts, as well as flight paths. One of the following headlines is true, and for those who do follow financial news, yes, I've stolen a quote from an American congressman because it was just that good. Thanks to Eolivet as always.. _

_This chapter's soundtrack song (and for the next one as well) is "Niente" off Craig Armstrong's As If To Nothing._

_For those who have asked about the family tree- I hope this helps._

_Two men founded Crawley Martin in the 1920s… Matthew Crawley (our DA guy) & David Martin. William Thorpe joined in the 1950s._

_Matthew and Lady Mary had three children. Robert, Reggie, **Violet** (late surprise)_

_Robert (deceased) had **Rob** (only child) who is the father of **Mary, Sybil & Eddie (**Edith) Sybil is the middle child in this scenario. **Rob** was married to Celine Desrosiers (mother of his three daughters) but she died and then he married **Charlotte Thorpe**. Reggie died in WWII._

_**Violet** married Percival Martin (deceased, elder son of David Martin) She had two children -** James** & Cora (she's off in America)_

_**James** married **Sarah** and has one son - **Percy Martin.**_

_**Alastair Martin** is the younger son of David Martin. You'll hear his story soon._

_As for the Thorpes… William Thorpe had two children. Will (deceased) and **Charlotte Thorpe.** **Charlotte **married and divorced a man (without issue) before marrying **Rob Crawle**y._

_Will had one son **Patrick Thorp**e. **Patrick i**s married to **Nicola. ** They have a son, Wills. (who is far too young to matter yet)_

_You're all darlings and I love you all for supporting this. _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 7?**

_1 December 2011 – The Times_

_CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE TOP FOUR TO FORGO SALARIES, BONUSES_

_Matt Crawley, Alastair Martin, Mary Crawley and John Howland announce plan to accept £1 per annum until the December 2012 board meeting and will accept no bonus until that time._

_January 4, 2012 – Bloomberg News_

_STOCK SOARS ON CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE FINANCIAL DISCLOSURE_

_Within two months, the new team has already limited leverage and increased its cash cushion._

* * *

><p>Greg stood patiently next to Aurelie's desk as she carefully read the headline. "Toldja," he said softly.<p>

"Yes, you did," she said softly as she extracted a small envelope from her desk. "If you give this phone number away to anyone else, I will hunt you down and flense you."

"Isn't that what they do at The Box?" he said with a grin. "All right, what's next?"

She sat back and stared at him thoughtfully. "The new jet."

"Negative."

She snorted. "It's going to be positive. I want two tickets to Radiohead. The front two rows are acceptable."

"The shows that aren't on sale yet?"

"Of course."

"Done."

* * *

><p><em>17 February 2012 – Financial Times<em>

_ANALYSIS: THEY'RE DOING IT RIGHT AT CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE_

_...Its sole move that might raise eyebrows was an order for a new company jet, which on closer inspection turns out to not only be a better move financially, but environmentally as well._

* * *

><p>The tickets were delivered inside a box of white peonies, which, as any good assistant knows, are rarer in February than Radiohead tickets.<p>

* * *

><p><em>March 12, 2012 – New York Times<em>

_ROOM FOR DEBATE: IS IT THE ECONOMY THAT'S FAILING OR IS IT LEADERSHIP?_

_Action at Crawley Martin Thorpe shows good decisions can be made to lead through a bad economic climate._

_21 March 2012 – The Guardian_

_SYBIL MAIER NAMED POLITICAL JOURNALIST OF THE YEAR AT UK PRESS AWARDS_

_Her story about ties between the prime minister and the world's largest media company cited by committee as the top investigative piece._

* * *

><p>"To Sybil!"<p>

Percy leaned over and looked at the tiny canvas propped on the table, a sea of Sybil's bylines from _The Guardian_ folded like birds and decoupaged in layers, flying away from a crowd of tiny people on a rooftop. "Eddie, how long did this take you? It's brilliant."

Eddie shrugged and poured another glass of champagne for Jemma. Felix whispered something into Eddie's ear, and she grinned at him as she took his hand and led him back into her studio.

Percy watched in wonder. "And no one knows," he said.

Mary passed him the champagne bottle. "And no one can know, Percy. Do you understand me? No one. She trusts you now, like she trusts Felix and Sybil and Jemma and me."

He nodded. "Of course," he said. "I'm so glad she wanted to see me. I've missed her."

They watched as Eddie showed Felix and Sybil her newest work, still wet, still in progress, and Mary's voice was soft when she finally spoke. "You remind her of Mark, you know. That's the only reason."

"He hates himself, Mary. I know he'd want to see her."

"She won't see him. Percy, please don't push it."

* * *

><p><em>14 May 2012 – The Guardian<em>

_SINGLE TRADER AT CENTERBANK LOSES $2+B ON TRADES._

_Matthew Crawley, chairman of the resurgent Crawley Martin Thorpe, points out what Centerbank did was not illegal, but was, in fact, a perfect example of why the Volcker rule is needed. _

_May 15, 2012 – The Wall Street Journal_

_IN U.K., SPATS ON PAY ESCALATE_

_Boards point to Crawley Martin Thorpe as example of reform shareholders want to see._

_May 16, 2012 – The New York Times_

_FIRST E.C. PAINTING ON BLOCK AT PHILLIPS IN NEW YORK SELLS FOR $4.6M _

_Record price for a new artist, albeit one with such a ferocious following. There are concerns museums will be priced out of ever owning one._

_18 May 2012 – Financial Times_

_ANALYSIS: DID CENTERBANK KNOW WHAT ITS TRADER WAS UP TO?_

"_Well, it is quite funny that without any sort of government interference, Centerbank managed to lose more than four times what they think government regulation will cost them," Mary Crawley, Group Finance Director of Crawley Martin Thorpe told me last night before the Euro crisis meeting in Lisbon._

* * *

><p>18 May 2012<br>Lisbon Portela Airport  
>Hangar 6<br>19:25

Matthew sank into the thickly cushioned leather seat of the company's new jet and let out a sigh that might have been the longest in the history of the world. He glanced once more at the FT analysis and grinned at Mary's quote, thinking it deserved to be framed on a wall somewhere. Succinct, clever, and dead-on right, just like Mary herself, who was melting into the opposite chair. She had been on fire in today's meetings over potential bank rescues, and he had been sorry to miss the one where she had taken on a German official over an extreme austerity proposal that would potentially damage investment. Alastair had recounted how when the man rolled his eyes and called her a liberal, she blew apart his argument, first with the math, then in German, then apparently in ancient Greek, although at that point no one was listening because they were applauding too loudly. She had that effect on everyone, it seemed, because from her first day as Alastair's number two, she had led with the kind of pride and passion that invited applause and fierce devotion. It had not surprised him, considering all he'd been told, and yet it had been incredible to see her, with Alastair and John, set the bar so high and see everyone strive to meet it. He had been right to go with Alastair, for the love the company felt for their former leader was such that they would rather die than let him down, and Alastair had made it clear the only thing that would let him down was doing the wrong thing, even if it was for the right reasons.

And that was the trouble.

For as Matthew watched Mary accept a glass of water from the attendant, he wanted only to do the wrong thing. He noticed everything as she moved, the delicacy of her wrist, the paleness of her skin, the curve of her fingers around the glass, the ripple of her throat as she swallowed, the way she pressed her wet lips together after she drank. He had noticed those things for six straight months, ever since he'd spotted her across the room at the club, and yet those things weren't what made him want to do the wrong thing.

She wished she could take off her shoes. The left foot was nearly asleep and her right ached so badly she wanted to cry. But she was seated across from the chairman of the board, and since that night at Grantham House, when Matthew Crawley had seen her cry, when she had touched his arm, and when they had somehow begun to speak without words, they had been nothing but perfectly formal with each other. Alastair had always been old-fashioned in that way when it came to business, and from that Monday morning, when they began to rebuild Crawley Martin Thorpe from scratch, he had, without saying a word, implied that anything but the most proper sort of behaviour would not be tolerated. So day after day, week after week, as they saw the stock price tick up and the culture of Crawley Martin Thorpe once again becoming what it had always been, and the press writing the kind of stories that made perception reality, the top managers at Crawley Martin Thorpe were never informal with each other, never informal with the employees. Rather than chafe at the required decorum, the company thrived on it, a fact Mary attributed to the rather slapdash attitude of Patrick and Rob over the past few years. "You know that ridiculous saying 'think outside the box?'" Alastair had said quite early in the restructuring. "Nobody knows what or where that box is. Start with the box."

And they had, and in six months, the box worked. So did those working outside it, she thought with a grin. Rather than stifling creativity, it had blossomed, and Mary was as proud as a parent when three of her mid-level staffers came up with a brilliant way to isolate bad debt without making it toxic to investors. It was fun again, she thought as she tried to flex her feet and nearly gasped at the shooting pain through her ankle.

Except for this, she thought as she glanced across the aisle at Matthew, who had seemed to welcome the formality between them, to the point that she realized as the attendant retreated to the galley and closed the privacy door, this was the first time they'd been alone together since that dinner at Grantham House, and that same feeling crept up on her, the one she had successfully quashed for six months.

It was only a few minutes after takeoff when the attendant's soft voice told them the wifi was up and running, and Matthew opened his email to find an additional note from Aurelie. "**I've set it up so all your emails to me will go straight to Lani up in London. She'll handle everything this weekend. I'll be back late Sunday night. Please call if something's not right**."

He grinned as he replied. As formal as nearly every other work relationship had become, this would never change. "**Aurelie, you're at your sister's wedding. I'm not calling you. Have fun.**"

The response was nearly instantaneous. **"I'm at my sister's wedding, which is precisely why I will not be having fun. Call if something isn't right. You haven't traveled alone in years. I don't know if you'll be able to handle it."**

She couldn't remember the last time she'd traveled for work without Greg. He, like Alastair, was staying behind in Portugal, but unlike Alastair, who was seeing old friends, Greg was officially on vacation, although by the sheer mass of emails she'd gotten since leaving him behind at the hotel, he hadn't quite grasped the concept of not working. She skimmed them quickly before shutting down her small laptop and leaning back into the seat. Even sleep felt like misbehaviour, and she wondered suddenly at why they had a jet with an actual bedroom when the idea of sleeping in front of someone else seemed so entirely wrong. _For God's sake, she was Group Finance Director of one of the top investment firms in the world. She could take off her shoes if she damn well pleased! _ She edged one foot behind the other as she reached for the blanket resting on the opposite seat and an odd movement caught her eye.

Matthew was loosening his tie.

He froze as she looked at him, his fingers tucked in the blue silk, his eyes meeting hers. The unspoken rules, which had been in place on the flight yesterday with Alastair sitting across from them, seemed unnecessary to Matthew at this point. He was exhausted, she was clearly in agony in those shoes, and frankly, they were adults, and as much as he appreciated the ironic ease of formality, right now he wanted to do nothing but unbutton, untie, slip off, and sleep for the short flight, and from the slightly guilty look on her face, she was thinking exactly the same thing. He pulled off the tie with a snap and tossed it on the seat, his suit jacket close behind.

_Thank God, _ she thought, and managed not to moan as she kicked off her shoes, still watching him as he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white shirt. He leaned down to untie his shoes and she shrugged off her jacket and wrapped herself in the blanket, trying not to think of what those buttons revealed. _I didn't take him for someone with chest hair _popped into her mind, and she instantly regretted it as she knew her cheeks had flamed at the thought.

He caught only a glimpse of black-varnished toes before her feet disappeared underneath the camel blanket. "Better?" he asked softly, and she smiled as she closed her eyes.

"You have no idea," she replied.

"Get some sleep," he said. "You deserve it. Well done back there."

She opened her eyes and looked back at him. "You too, Matthew. And thank you."

He wanted to say something more, anything to hold onto the moment, but her eyes shut and his message alert dragged him back to his laptop screen.

**Will you be coming to Cambridge tonight or tomorrow morning? **

**Hello, Alice. Yes, I'm wonderful. How are you? You're not charged by the word, you know. **

**I thought you preferred it when I got to the point. I'm wonderful, Matthew, just divine, really. Throwing up every sixteen minutes in the morning is God's gift to future mothers, isn't it?**

**That bad? **

**Yes, but isn't it all worthwhile when at the end of it you have an ungrateful little brat who will probably be thick as David Beckham, but not as talented?**

**Alice, are you all right?**

**Fine. I'm fine. Sorry. I just had a colleague to tea and she brought her two-year-old son and I'm now questioning the wisdom of reproducing. **

**What does Daniel think?**

**He brought home a bloody cricket bat for the baby. **

Matthew laughed, trying to smother the sound so Mary didn't hear him. **Well, I'll give the baby a subscription to the FT. How does that sound?**

**Where are you?**

**Company jet. Heading back from that euro meeting in Lisbon. **

**How's Lady Mary?**

**Stop it. **

**All right. I'm sure she's lovely and you really enjoy working with ice and snow. Will you be bringing Nastia? Nadia? Nymphadora? **

**Her name was Nina and no, I'm not bringing her. I'm not seeing her anymore. **

He looked over at Mary, who had curled up on her side, facing him, her hands tucked under her chin.

**I'm not seeing anyone. You're stuck with just me this weekend.**

The chat disconnected, and he wondered absently if Alice was sick again, but then the galley door opened. "Sir, I'm sorry, but the pilot's turning off the wifi."

"That's all right," he replied. "Is there something wrong?"

A loud thud on the right side of the plane answered his question.

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: You're all so wonderful. Thanks for sticking with this. (and thanks to Eolivet as always) _

_If you haven't alerted it, you might want to. Just saying. _

_The soundtrack is Niente off Craig Armstrong's As If To Nothing._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 8?**

18 May 2012  
>Le Violon d'Ingres<br>Paris  
>20:10<p>

This was precisely why she'd left Paris.

Aurelie pretended to light the cigarette she'd taken from her mother. She hadn't smoked since HEC and she wasn't about to start again, but it gave her a reason to move away from the celebrations inside the restaurant. It was shut down for the post-civil ceremony party and she frankly was already tired of her family, tired of her sister's droning on and on about her new husband, the pointed remarks about his success at a French company, and her ex-boyfriend's casual mention that he'd been promoted at his firm...

It was enough to make her want to start speaking in German just to annoy them.

The air of disappointment she seemed to invite from her family wasn't justified, but she could never make them understand that she was unwilling to play the game any other way. She wasn't wasting her HECParis degree. She didn't want to be a trader, didn't want to start her own business, didn't want to be a middle manager in some ordinary French company, and considering the state of the euro, she knew she didn't want anything to do with French investment banks. She wanted to run operations in a giant English or American firm, be the one who made the cogs turn instead of just being one, and on day one of her internship in New York, she knew who could make that happen. His name was Matthew Crawley, he was already a star, and he was in desperate need of someone who had a clue. She changed everything about how he did things, and he did make it happen, and now she could see the way forward, the perfect position opening up at Crawley Martin Thorpe, the executive operations analyst slot that would pave the way to a boardroom position.

_The only problem is him,_ she thought morosely as she pretended to stub out a flame that wasn't there. _Competition._

Her iPhone jangled its most irritating ring, set by the person it heralded, and she tried to appear bored as she answered it. "_Allo. Qui est l'appareil?"_

"Oh, you know who it is."

"Did you get them on the jet? Did they take off?"

Greg laughed. "Yes. I'm perfectly capable of doing it without you. I can corral two executives on my own. How was wedding part one?"

"Awful. Just as I expected. When are you getting here?"

"Flight takes off in an hour. I won't be able to save you tonight, but I'll be there for the mass and massacre to follow."

She smiled, finally. "I'm glad. Where do she think you are?"

"Do you think I share everything with her?"

"Yes."

"She thinks I'm heading to Italy to meet friends."

"That sounds much nicer. We should do that instead." She picked at the edge of the window and looked inside at her sister. "I could be at the airport in two hours."

"It's your little sister's wedding. You should be there, if only to be the one to remind her of her checkered past at awkward moments."

"I already did."

"Well done."

Her phone beeped gently and she frowned at it. "Sorry, that's Lani. She's picking up my calls this weekend."

"Good luck with that."

"Stop." The line went quiet.

Greg sighed and stretched out his long legs in front of him. It was strange being without his charge, flying commercial for the first time in ages. To be honest, it wasn't easy shepherding two of them, even with minimal luggage. Hopefully, that was about to end soon. He just hoped _she_ wasn't after the same job.

The slight pop on his headset brought him back and he started to speak, but she cut him off.

"There's something wrong with the jet."

* * *

><p>It wasn't the first thud, but the second that startled her, dark eyes wide as they both felt the loss in velocity. Mary was the first to press the button, and the pilot's calm voice responded, telling them that it was an engine failure, but just one, and turning around wasn't a good option. "There's some dicey air en route to Madrid, but if I take it a bit south, it's quieter and I can put it down in Barcelona. There's rain incoming, but we should be on the ground in about forty minutes. It's the safest option."<p>

She looked only briefly at Matthew before acquiescing, her voice oddly calm to her own ear, considering the thumping that had already begun to echo in her chest. The attendant, her jaw set a little tighter than Mary felt comfortable with, had taken the glasses and left bottles of water for both of them, a sign Mary knew to mean that she would be buckling in as well. She could hear the additional scream of the one engine pressed into extra service and shuddered.

"Talk to me." Matthew's voice startled her. His eyes were closed and he swallowed twice before speaking again. "Anything. Just... talk. Please."

"Any requests?" She curled back on her side, the blanket clutched in her now-icy fingers.

"I don't care. I just... tell me about your childhood. Or Eddie. Or why Alastair thinks it's 1912." He laughed, or rather, tried to, but it was lost in a shaky breath that made her own fear escalate.

"You aren't interested in my analysis of the London Whale Trader?"

"I don't want to talk about work." His head tilted and his eyes opened to meet hers. "Please, Mary."

"Which part of my childhood? The happy part?"

He did not reply.

_What to say? That her earliest memories were the very definition of simple joy, of Maman's gentle embraces, knowing only French from her lips in those first years? Should she tell him about her baby sisters? How Sybil crawled at an absurdly early age, and she would escape cots, and fences, and anything in her way? How Eddie would only stop crying in her own six-year-old arms? How they had loathed their English grandparents, but loved the huge home that would be hers one day?_

"We spent every summer in Provence," she began. "Before I could walk, or remember, if it was summer, we were in France."

"A castle?"

"No, a farmhouse. Near Lourmarin. It was just Maman, the old couple who took care of it for her, and us. Not Pa.. not Rob." She paused. "That first night, every year, the long drive from Marseille as usually in the dark, and Maman would pretend to be lost. Even that last.. year. When we were little, we would shout the directions in a panic, and when we were older, it became a game, but we would always make it somehow, and Philippe and Aimee would be waiting and there was always _chocolat chaud_, because even in late May, it could get chilly, and we would drink it outside. Maman would kiss the chocolate off our upper lips and put us to bed..." _Maman's soft hands and her smile as she would cook, when she taught me to cook, when Sybil and Edith would join us and.. _

"What was her name?"

She did not realize she'd stopped talking until Matthew spoke, his voice no calmer than before, and she suddenly felt the slight dips as the plane adjusted, the slow loss of altitude hopefully deliberate. "Céline."

"Beautiful." He took a deep breath. "How did you all end up with such English names?"

"Mine was my great-grandmother's, of course. Sybil and Edith were Lady Mary's sisters. My mother adored Lady Mary. Everyone else was terrified of her, but she and Maman got along brilliantly. When she died just before I was born, Maman told Rob in no uncertain terms that she was having a girl and she would be named Mary Josephine. Rob hated it, but then he hated his grandmother. When a second girl came along, they chose Sybil, and a third... well... Edith seemed natural."

"Why did he hate her?"

She shrugged. "She hated his mother. My grandmother was nasty, greedy and desperate. Her father was a marquess who'd lost everything save the pile of bricks they'd called home since the seventeenth century and even that was mortgaged beyond belief. Lady Mary loathed her family and loathed her, but it didn't stop my grandfather from marrying her. Granny Violet always said.." Her voice softened. "Lady Mary loved all her children, but when Reggie died, she was never quite the same. None of them were ever the same."

"No one ever is."

She cursed herself. "I forgot. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You know what it feels like as well as I do."

"I had time to get used to it. Two years."

"And it wasn't any easier, was it?"

"No." She brushed at her eyes, remembering that phone call from a screaming eleven-year-old Eddie, that Papa had lied, that everyone had lied and Maman had died. "And what was stupid, so stupid, is that it wasn't even the cancer. It was pneumonia."

The plane bumped and dropped and Mary stifled a scream. Matthew's fingers gripped the armrest so tightly, she thought he'd break them. "How old were you?"

"Seventeen," she whispered. "How old were you?"

"Nineteen," he breathed. "Alice was fifteen."

"Alice Crawley," she said. "I remember an Alice Crawley. Caius, right?"

He nodded.

"I doubt she'd remember me. It wasn't a good time. I didn't socialize much, and when I did, I wasn't much fun."

"She's expecting a baby." He was silent for a moment. "That's what scares me. Not dying like this. It's not dying. It's that she'd have to go through it again, especially now."

_He understands, he knows. _"Surviving."

His eyes flicked back to her, the blue so bright she nearly gasped. "Yes. It's worse, I think. To be left, to have to keep going. And you have to. You have to be the strong one." He let go of the armrest and flexed the fingers of his left hand.

"I hated having to be the strong one." she whispered. "Why couldn't I scream and cry?"

"Were you numb?"

"For a long time. I think maybe a little bit of me still is." The plane slowed again and she fought back the panic. "It was a fire, wasn't it?"

He let out an odd sound, not quite a sob and put his hand up to his eyes. "Electrical. The house was so old, it just.. disintegrated. They didn't even wake up. Alice was on a school trip, and I was at Cambridge and we came home to.. God, can we talk about anything else?"

The plane lurched. Matthew's hand shot back to the armrest, but found her hand instead, her cold fingers gripping his.

"Please," she said.

* * *

><p>Greg was the first to learn it was an engine failure, and that they were trying to land in Barcelona. Aurelie knew a few minutes later that the maintenance team from Luton was hopping a jet within the hour.<p>

"We should go," he said. "I can get on a flight to Barcelona in the next hour."

"Wait until they've landed at least."

"I should call for hotels for them. I don't think there's a commercial flight this late, and frankly I can't see them wanting to fly right now. Does he have a preference?"

"I can do it for him." An edge crept into her voice and he flinched.

"Aurelie, I'm already on the company site. It'll take me two minutes."

She sighed. "Fine. He prefers the W. The biggest one-bedroom they have with a terrace. Still, not sparkling water in the suite. Pre-order breakfast for delivery at six a-m. Espresso, four shots, steamed milk on the side, and the seeded croissants with fresh fruit. They know to open the gym for him at 4:30, but remind them."

Greg laughed.

"Yours can't be any less specific."

"No, that's not it." She could hear him typing. "The first four are exactly the same as mine. The W it is. Separate cars, do you think?"

"Same car is fine. He won't care if they're going to the same place." She paced outside the restaurant, ignoring her mother's gestures. "Can you check flights from Paris while you're at it?"

"Of course," he said softly. "I'll call you back."

* * *

><p>Her hand was warm now, his thumb's unconscious, circular stroking of her palm seeming to calm them both. She did not know what had possessed her, but he was at least smiling now as she talked. "So he toasted the Dowager Countess at dinner that year, because she was the one who'd put him up to learning how to break the entail back in 1913. Because of that, he knew precisely how to do it when the time came."<p>

"So this guy who claimed to be the heir who had presumably died on the Titanic became the earl?"

She grinned. "The family solicitor couldn't prove he WASN'T the heir, just as he couldn't prove who he was. The only way to break the entail was to declare it under threat and put a private bill in Parliament. It took a year, but Matthew did it, and when Lady Mary's father died, the entire estate went to her, and the man who had desperately sought the title got that title, but without a single penny attached."

The plane slowed again, and both of them held their breath, hands holding tight, until they felt the gentle descent, and the pilot informed them they were getting close, and to buckle in. "This may be the roughest part. It's started to rain."

She looked at Matthew. "Almost over," she murmured.

"What happened to the earl?" he replied.

"He married the plain second daughter of an earl, and they lived out their days in York. I think the current Earl still lives there. I've never met him."

"Second daughter. He didn't marry Edith Crawley, did he?"

She snorted. "God, no. She married a very sweet old man who indulged her love of racing cars. She was a hill climb champion. Very adventurous even in her old age. She founded Strallan Racing. All of them are mad, but very nice."

"And the other sister? The one who married the socialist chauffeur?"

"Ireland. They never left. I've only met a few of them, but if you ever want concert tickets to a particular Irish rock band, I have a pretty good connection."

"I don't believe you."

"Try me sometime when they're back on tour."

She was smiling, and even though his heart was pounding and he could feel the sweat on his back, the feel of her hand in his made it somehow better. "Seatbelt securely fastened?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "But I'm not putting the seat in the upright position."

"Rebel," he replied. "Mary, if there is a problem with the landing.."

"Don't.."

"No, I'm serious. I have a lot of faith in this pilot. I have to," he said with a slight grin. "But I just want you to know how much I've enjoyed the last six months."

Her throat suddenly closed up, and only years of practice kept the tears out of her eyes. "So have I. And I expect to enjoy the next six months as well, so none of this."

"All right," he said. "And now that I've said that, we'll land safely and I'll feel an idiot for having been so worried."

"We'll both feel like idiots." There was a soft flash of light outside, and then another, and she noticed raindrops on the windows were blurring the cityscape in the distance. "Have you ever been to Barcelona?"

"Several times." His hand relaxed, and she thought he was letting go, but his fingers instead interlaced with hers, his thumb now stroking her thumb. She did not look down at it, not sure he was entirely aware of what his hand was doing. "You?"

"Same," she whispered.

The pilot's disembodied voice startled them both, announcing they were on final approach and it might be a little bumpy due to light turbulence ahead.

Mary decided the pilot did not know what _little_ or _bumpy_ actually meant, never mind _light. _The plane bounced like it was made of rubber, tilting back and forth just enough to make her glad she hadn't eaten anything before they left. She tried to focus on the streaks of rain across the window, but the lights through the water made her dizzy, and she was about to remark upon it when she caught sight of his face, and she realized he did know precisely what he was doing.

He was staring at their clasped hands, watching his thumb drag across hers, watching it nudge her thumb until his own could nestle underneath, the nail scratching gently at the pad. Her own thumb, quite detached from her mind, pushed back ever so slightly, and he allowed her to stroke down the length of his thumb before recapturing it, his own skin warm against hers as he held it still, briefly, before repeating the motion, drag-nudge-nestle-scratch, and then she stroked again, let herself be held again. Everything had gone soft in her head and her body, and she could focus only on those few square inches of skin, the place where they connected, and not even the sound of the wheels coming down could startle her now.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"For what?"

"That I made you be the strong one." He broke off the stroke and clasped her hand tightly as the jet swayed.

"I needed the distraction," she said lightly. "And anyway, you were the strong one for me last November. It was the least I could do."

"Mary, don't..." His other hand scrubbed at his hair, rumpling the waves. "I don't want you to be grateful, or to think I.. saved you or something. You were the right person, and you were... Have you ever seen American basketball?"

It was so absurd, she burst out laughing. "Yes, once. Matthew, what are you talking about?"

"I should take you to a Knicks game sometime. What I mean is, when someone with the ball has two defenders on him... oh, I suppose it's true in football as well... but two on one... the player can't get out without help. The greatest player on earth needs the rest of the team to get him out. You were double-teamed by those morons. Once you got clear, it was all right."

"But you cleared it."

"The shareholders cleared it. They knew what they wanted."

"What did you want?" Their hands went still, and the plane slowed again, the nose tipping up ever so slightly.

"What I've always wanted."

She could feel their thumbs side by side, touching, each miniscule stroke of one answered by the other.

"I want this to work, Mary."

And the plane made contact with the ground, flawlessly, without a bounce, the flaps flaring as it slowed on the wet runway, and they could hear the pilots whooping in the cockpit.

And they didn't let go.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: I truly don't know what to say. A lovely person who resides under the name of eatsleeptv on tumblr has done me the great honor of linking to this with a gorgeous gifset that is so inspiring.. Ugh, I want a poster of it on my wall. Thank you. There really aren't words adequate enough to thank you for that, and for everyone's wonderful reviews and tweets of support. I hope a new chapter will suffice. _

_Huge thanks as always to Eolivet for keeping me honest and fixing things. If you're not reading "If," you need to be. _

_The soundtrack for this is "Hymn 2" off Craig Armstrong's __As If To Nothing.__ I hope he doesn't mind, just as I hope JF doesn't mind me playing with his characters' descendants. _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 9?**

_Fingers twined, held, pressed together.  
><em>_In fear, a lifeline, but now, in living, something more._

18 May 2012  
>20:55<p>

The screen lit up and Aurelie answered it before the ring even began. "Landed?

"Yes," he said.

She exhaled and coughed suddenly.

"Are you smoking? Aurelie..."

"Have you called her yet?" Her voice was unnaturally low.

"Texted. Told her to call me when they got to the hangar and that the car would be waiting. No response. About to call."

"I'll reconfirm the car's on location. Is there a flight from Paris tonight?"

"Too late, and don't ask. I already checked the corporate flight plans. There's nothing. I'm stuck as well. You're standby on the first AirFrance flight out if you want it."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Aurelie, I will bet you dinner at Noma he will not let you leave your sister's wedding."

She could hear his grin through the phone. "And if I'm right?"

"Drinks and eats at 41 Degrees. In the back."

"Done." She found herself smiling. "We are going to make each other fat."

"We're going to run out of bets," he replied with a laugh. "Gonna try her now."

The line went dead and she sighed as she stood up, glaring at the disapproving old women four pews in front of her before she crossed herself once again and walked out of Sainte-Pierre and back to the restaurant.

* * *

><p>They did not let go, not when the plane slowed to a crawl and turned off the runway, not when the attendant's voice told them they'd have to wait for a tow, and not even when the jet eased to a stop inside the hangar. Only the rustle in the galley that signaled the approach of the attendant could break them apart, and even that was slow, fingers dragging against palms as they stood up. "Messages," he said softly, and it gave them both a reason to look away, to not think about what had happened, what was happening in that small space.<p>

Mary's phone rang first. "We're fine," she said as soon as she answered.

Matthew's phone rang. "Aurelie, don't get on that flight." He paused for only a moment. "I don't know what flight, but I know you're thinking about getting on it. Stay in Paris. I'll figure it out."

"Greg, believe it or not, I'm capable of traveling alone. I even know how to make a reservation." She rolled her eyes. "Well, then thank you. Did you..." She shifted her weight and Matthew suddenly realized she barely cleared his chin without her monstrous heels.

"No, don't book any flights out of here yet." Matthew interrupted Aurelie. "After what just happened, I don't want to fly tomorrow." _Or ever again,_ he mouthed to Mary, who grinned back. "No, I'll let you know. Goodnight, Aurelie. And thank you."

"Thank you, Greg" Mary said. "Go, and don't worry about me tonight. Or tomorrow. You're supposed to be having fun. Greg. GREG. Goodbye." She hung up in midstream and slipped the phone into the pocket of her bag. "So it seems our assistants cannot leave anything to chance."

"God forbid I make my own reservations," he replied, and he was suddenly aware of the nearness of her. His eyes flicked to her mouth, his own lips parting slightly as her head tilted, a question in that eyebrow that was quirking up. "What?" he murmured, and he felt her hand brush his again.

"We made it," she whispered.

His phone rang. She took a step back as they both looked at the phone screen and their eyes met again as he answered it.

"Hello. Alastair. Yes, we're all right."

* * *

><p>The driver had already loaded their baggage into the back of the Mercedes, and the pilots were looking at the right wing, and so she stood at the door of the hangar, alone, staring out at the rain. The mass text she'd sent to Jemma, Sybil, and Eddie had resulted in a torrent of responses, to which she'd just sent <em>Don't worry. I'm fine. Heading to the W for the night. <em>Her skin crawled suddenly with the thought of what might have happened and she tried to push it out of her mind, the memory of the bumps and sickening drops, and all she could come up with was his hand caressing hers. She shivered, and wished she'd brought the blanket from the plane.

"Alastair says hello, and sorry about the detour." Matthew stopped next to her, looking up at the sky. "And the pilot just told me we were struck by lightning up there."

"Is that what caused it?"

"No." The captain called out from the other side of the wing. "Engine failed on its own. The lightning strike was just the cherry on the cake of my day. Two lightning strikes."

"I thought these were designed to take strikes." Mary felt her stomach clench in fear.

"They're also designed to have two engines working. Do you want to know how bad it was up there?"

They were silent. "No," Matthew finally said.

The co-pilot laughed. "Well, all I'll say is go get a drink and celebrate life. That's what I'll be doing later."

* * *

><p>They both fastened their seat belts, sharing a small smile as they did so, and the black car slipped out of the hangar and sped toward the exit. For miles, there was only the rain, the hypnotic sound of the windscreen wipers, and their breaths, which to each of them sounded like thunder in that closed car. Every rustle against the leather sounded like gunfire, and for once, Mary wished the driver would talk, or play music, or anything that would cut this silence. She dared not speak, dared not let her voice reveal what she was thinking, because she knew he was thinking exactly the same thing, but she could not be the one to take the step.<p>

He had been driven along this street countless times, ridden it twice on a motorcycle, and yet never had it seemed so never-ending. He could see the portico ahead, the place where, if he said nothing, they would separate. It was also, he realized, the place where if he said something, they might separate. Everything was fragile, delicate, at the point of disintegration if it was not handled just right, and he did not know how to handle it. There was no negotiation, no positioning, no analysis of information that would tell him what to do. Only she could do that.

The car came to a stop, the doors flying open at the hands of valets, the driver jumping out to retrieve the luggage. The outside world came at them in English and Spanish, the pair of concierges rattling off welcomes, organizing the transportation of bags, the quick queries as to their level of hunger or thirst. A tall young woman stopped with a tray and glasses of lemon water were put in hands as bags were divided, and then they were divided, separated by entourages of strangers, a distance put between them before either could speak, separate elevators closing before a word could be said.

He was assaulted by literary references, absurdly, the idea of a string tied between hearts snapping, valedictions forbidding mourning, and he put it down to exhaustion. _Just as well, _he thought sadly.

"I hope it is not a problem, but you are on the same floor," the man informed Matthew as the elevator doors opened slowly and as his eyes met hers once again, he was anything but exhausted.

"You don't mind, do you?" The woman's accent was unplaceable, Mary thought absently as she felt her cheeks turn scarlet at the look in Matthew's eyes. He went past her, still looking, even while talking to the young man escorting him, and she thought _same floor. _

"No, of course not. I'm just glad it's available." Mary's fingers twisted in the strap of her bag. _Say something, say anything, say hello again, fancy meeting you here. _The door loomed in front of her, the concierge's hand sliding in the key, and Mary could not find her voice. _Probably for the best... _

And then there was a sound, and she was not quite sure she'd heard him.

"Mary?"

"Yes?"

He was at his door down the hall, the only other door on the floor.

"I'm going to order room service. What do you recommend?"

His eyes were once again that unholy colour, ultramarine, Vermeer-blue, spotlights in the darkened hallway. She felt suddenly light and tired at precisely the same time, a weight gone and another far more delicious one in its place. _I want this to work, _she thought, and no voice rose to warn against it, only a kind of relief wrapped in something she had no regret in feeling and a reaffirmation of the truth of those words.

"Razor clams if they have them. The grilled prawns. Something sweet."

His face did not change, his mouth perfectly neutral, but his eyes softened, sending a thrill through her.

"Chocolate?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Of course."

"What about to drink?"

"Cava," she said. "They have a very good one here."

He could not contain his smile, and she could not help but smile back. "Sounds delicious," he replied.

"I think you'll enjoy it," she said, and she entered her room.

"Will you be ordering food?"

Mary turned back to the concierge. "No, I'm just going to bed."

* * *

><p>They laid out a spread that would feed six, and now, hair still damp from his shower, still smiling after his short conversation with Alice, he was suddenly ravenous. He picked up a rough-cut slice of warm bread as he walked to the terrace doors, and swung them open to see the now- faraway storm over the water, the clouds and stars above, and Mary on her terrace, dark hair loose and her face tilted up to the sky. She turned before he said a word, and all regret, all worry, all thought that <em>this is wrong<em> disappeared.

"They had razor clams," he said.

* * *

><p>She wondered if the shower would shift her mood, make her think rationally, make her question any of this, but it had not changed anything, save for the touch of her own fingers across her wet skin invoking new thoughts about his hands. She swiped the steam off the mirror, the objective observer looking back, noting a bare face, the armor of suits discarded for the faded scarlet t-shirt and ancient jeans she never traveled without, and something in her eyes she had not seen in a while. A smile curved across her face as a soft roll of thunder drew her to the terrace, the salty-sweet Mediterranean air washing over her as she held onto the glass railing. <em>How many times<em>, she thought, _to stand on these balconies, to hear these sounds and yet... _ The feeling was fizzy now, bubbling inside her throat and just as she thought she might laugh aloud, she _felt _him before she heard him.

* * *

><p>He peered over the chasm between them, a good fifteen feet across and he did not dare think of how far down. "I suppose it's to stop people from jumping from suite to suite," he murmured.<p>

She only smiled as she crossed her arms on the railing and leaned her head against them. "Prawns, too?"

"And chocolate. Three kinds. I couldn't decide."

His hands scrubbed at his hair, bits of it standing up, and that fizzy, happy feeling swelled again at seeing him like this, the grey t-shirt and khaki trousers making him seem rumpled and young, as unlike himself as she felt right now and yet very much himself.

A flash of lightning in the distance over her shoulder repeated itself twice, and he took hold of the railing. "Lightning still seems close."

"To be out here, you mean? Don't want to tempt fate again?"

"Not with lightning," he replied. "Still hungry?"

Her eyebrow tilted up, the smile changed ever so slightly, and her eyes did not leave his as she walked into her suite and disappeared.

He thought of her crossing the carpet as he did, heading for her door as he headed to his, opening her door as he opened his, and he stepped out just as she did. Her feet were bare, and she strode the carpet slowly, watching him watch her.

"Still hungry," she whispered as she passed him and walked into his suite, pulling her mobile from her pocket and leaving it on the table just inside the door. "Did you see Facebook, by the way?"

"Yes." He shut the door, and he knew at that moment with absolute certainty that all of the things he was feeling had precisely nothing to do with the fact he'd narrowly avoided dying in a plane crash that evening.

There was some drama with the cava, flutes nowhere to be found, and Mary laughed at his suggestion they call for some. "Can't you slum it this once, Crawley?" she teased as she poured it into a stemless tumbler.

"It's you I was worried about."

"Of course you were."

They scooped up clams and prawns, fighting over the largest on the plate, and once she had pointed out that the sky above was perfectly clear and the storm had disappeared, they began eating in companionable silence on the terrace chaises. For several minutes, it was only the sound of the waves, and the click of shells on plates. She caught him licking his thumb and realized _how young he is. How young we are..._ He heard her hum after a particularly large razor clam, and wondered at how he had never seen her like this in all the time he had known her. Six months had been a lifetime before this, and yet with her, six months was only a beginning and not enough.

His phone made the sound of the closing bell and she laughed out loud. "That's your text alert?"

"No, it's email marked urgent. Sorry." He grinned as he read it. "So what's cooler than a billion dollars? Lawsuits."

"No!"

"Already talk of it. The early trading problems. That and there's a rumour the underwriting firms knew the stock was overvalued." He tossed the phone aside.

"Did you see that movie about Facebook?"

"I must have. Probably on a plane somewhere. I don't remember the last film I saw in a proper cinema. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last film I saw. No, wait. Bridesmaids. On the flight to London six months ago."

She giggled. "Same. Although in a hotel in Greece with terrible subtitles. God, we're losers."

"We're adults," he countered.

"We've been adults forever," she said quietly. Her plate scraped clean, she let him take it from her and she raised her glass as he returned. "To life."

"To working engines."

She grinned. "To clever assistants."

"To knowing Facebook was a bad idea." He grinned back. "What was the quote from the former chief risk officer last year when everyone else was salivating over it? Oh yes. Unfriend and unlike." He gently touched his glass to hers. "Didn't underwrite, not interested, and it turned out to be exactly what you thought. Well played."

"You listened," she replied.

"I meant what I said earlier, Mary. It's not.."

"I know," she interrupted. "And I don't think of you that way. I've never thought of you that way." She stood up and walked to the railing. "Everyone else wanted to go for it. I reminded them of the old tech boom, all the rigging that happened, that Crawley Martin Thorpe stayed above that fray back then and been the heroes. They didn't care. They wanted the money, even though I told them the money wasn't there. Then you came in and I didn't need to explain anything. You knew what I meant when I said the structure was unacceptable." She took a long, shaky breath as she turned and finally looked directly at him. "You always know what I mean."

Her eyes did not break from his over her glass as she drank, as he came toward her and took the glass from her hand, took both their glasses and put them down before facing her again. This time, he was the one to take her hand, the thumbs finding each other again, and he smiled at her touch. "You always know what I mean," he replied. "What I'm thinking, why I'm thinking it."

"Always?" she said as he lifted her hand to his mouth. "Even now?"

"Try me." He whispered it against her skin.

"Dessert?" Her other hand slid up his neck.

"Clearly."

She touched his mouth with her fingers before she kissed it, answering a question long burning inside her, _yes soft, _before her lips met his, barely, sweetly, almost chastely. The sigh of relief on contact, the moment frozen, perfect, the smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths before the kiss deepened, instinctively, her body arching into his, his arms pulling her close, hers twining around his neck. _This,_ she thought as her feet came off the floor, brushing against cotton, up his legs, the muscles everywhere tensing, a spring coiled inside both of them, and then she was above him, his face in her hands, her legs tight around him and their eyes never closing as his lips slanted against hers. There was no sound but breath, irregular gasps that burned against their cheeks, against her throat as he licked the hollow at its base, tasting her for the first time. Her hands twisted in his hair, holding him there, and he could feel a laugh deep in her chest. "Ticklish?" he murmured as he kissed her collarbone again.

"No," she said softly. "I think I just climbed you like a tree."

And he started to laugh with her, the sheer stupidity of the joke only making them even more sure of what was happening as he spun her around, making her shriek before walking inside, their mouths crashing again, as if they had known how to kiss each other their whole lives. Her hands, greedy for skin, pulled off his t-shirt as soon as he put her down on the bed, and hers followed, and it was another held breath, another exhaled sigh as he stroked each breast before he kissed it, his thumbs as arousing as his lips. _This,_ he thought as she flipped them over, as she scratched lightly at his chest, traced the same path he had with her tongue, their hands undoing the same buttons, wresting the cloth from already slick bodies, their breathing louder, laughter now lost in a rush of need.

And their eyes remained open as they bared themselves, legs open, fingers finding heat, feeding the desperate want inside, each thrilling that they had done this to each other, that he could make her feel so much, that she could push him so quickly to the edge. Their eyes did not close as he asked a question without words, and she answered with a single nod before he eased inside her, and what had felt like desire before dissolved in a dizzying blast of animal lust neither one could control, and he rolled again so she was on him, her hips grinding against his, and slowly, even as she sped up, he curled up against her, half-sitting, and her spine arched as her head fell back, her hands on his shoulders as he breathed against her breast, his own hips straining against hers and she _heard_ him. "Oh God, Mary," he was saying, over and over again.

And it began where it had never begun before, as deep inside her as he was, and she froze, her head lifting as their eyes met and her mouth opened, but no sound emerged, only breath and _this_ swelling, rolling fire that spilled from every nerve in her body, pulsing through her faster and faster until an involuntary, stuttering cry flew from her mouth and he felt everything as she pitched forward in his arms and he did not know how she was below him again, but she was, eyes on his as a single jerk of his hips was all it took and his own cry broke the air. His face found its home in the crook of her neck, her hands cradling his head, and he whispered the words against her again, and she answered with his name in a breath, a benediction in one murmured word.

And some minutes later, their eyes stayed open as they separated, pushed the sheets back and crawled in together, never breaking contact as feet, legs, hips, arms, breasts, all found their place again, pressed against one another as the aftershocks kept bursting inside, and as they stared at each other in mutual wonder, and their breathing slowed, it was once again their thumbs, stroking, nudging, grasping each other that seemed to be the most intimate touch of all.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: You're all just too kind. Truly. Between the lovely reviews, the pretty graphics and the hilarious tumblr tags... I love this bar. Cheers and proper chocolate and ice cream to she who betas – Eolivet. _

_The musical accompaniment for this... well, this is a quiet one without a song. Imagine rain and thunder. Imagine an engine. Imagine breathing. The songs pick up again in the next chapter. And I'm really taking liberties with the weather here... _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 10?**

Matthew awoke to a rumble of thunder, not a loud one, but enough to make him remember he'd left his phone on the chaise outside. He looked with some trepidation at the situation he'd found himself in, and wondered if there was any possible way to extricate himself without awakening her, and decided against even trying. "Mary," he whispered against her forehead, his hand squeezing hers.

"Mmm?"

"I left my phone outside." He began to pull away from her gently.

"I'll alert the press," she mumbled as she let go. "Mine's by the door."

"Do you want it?" He stood up, stretched, and looked at the clock. 2:21.

"Do I?" She was still mostly asleep.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Right back," he said. There were only a few raindrops, and he found the phone half under a towel, none the worse for wear, and he scrolled through the messages quickly. He picked up her phone, a plate from the table, and a pair of forks, and retreated to the bedroom, where she had co-opted most of the bed, her long limbs sprawling across the center. It made him start laughing out loud as he put down the plate and opened the bottle of water on the tray at the foot of the bed. "Mary," he said, not quietly.

"Mmm."

"Do you want dessert?"

She opened one dark eye and stared at him for a second before rolling and turning herself until her head was at his side. "Maybe." She peered at the plate. "What is it?"

"One of the chocolate things. I don't remember what it was called." He handed her a glass of water. "I hope it's still good."

"How could it not be? It's chocolate," she murmured as she took a drink and then picked off a bite. "_Pa amb xocolata. _Bread with chocolate. Maman..." She stopped, head tilting slightly forward, hair obscuring her face and there was the smallest sigh, a sound that he knew all too well hid the burial of some deep emotion. He tucked the dark locks of hair behind her ear, carefully, gently, his fingers light upon her skin, and he pretended to not see the tear that connected faint freckles across her right cheek.

"Tell me," he said.

"Maman made it sometimes. It's chocolate and bread, of course, but unlike _pain au chocolat_, this has olive oil and salt. Simple, but perfect. Like most simple things are." She took another bite, put down the fork and glass, and rolled to her back, her hand resting gently on his thigh. _This isn't simple,_ she thought as she watched him taste it, grin, take a larger bite, and then a long drink of water. _It won't be simple. _

"They fixed the jet," he said quietly. "Compressor surge screwed up the fuel flow."

"Do you know what that means?"

"No," he admitted, and she laughed. "But it's purportedly all right. The maintenance team wants to fly it back early tomorrow. Without us, of course."

"Of course," she replied. He handed over her phone before turning his full attention to the dessert plate. It opened to an onslaught of emails, nearly all ignorable, save for one from Alastair. **Trust you two to fly the company with ease, but destroy the new jet. Don't fly for at least a day. I had to crash-land a helicopter once and it was a year before lifts weren't terrifying. Go visit the Picassos or something. No one's going to care what we're doing this weekend since we're not responsible for Facebook. (well done) If something happens, my assistant is on call and knows where to find me. I'll see you Monday morning. **

"I think I'll go back early Sunday," he said as she tossed her phone on the bench. "Catch a BA flight, have some time to prepare for Monday."

He wasn't looking at her, and that sensation from last night filled her again, that strange awareness, that moment of knowing the question being asked without the words being said. "Can't bear flying first thing," she said slowly. "I'll probably do a noon-ish flight Sunday."

"So a whole day in Barcelona with nothing to do," he murmured, and she wondered at how she had managed to sit through meetings hearing that voice.

"Alastair suggests Picasso." She tried to keep her voice light, but there was an unpredictable rasp to it, and she noted its effect with a smile. "Have you been to the Museu Picasso?"

"Once. You?"

"Once." The back of her hand began to drag along his leg, down, then up, her eyes focused on it. "A summer trip. Before my final year. We queued up for hours, and I thought it was all a waste until I saw..." She stopped. "Would you go?"

"I'd love to," he said as he slipped his fingers inside her hand, gripping it as he had on the plane. "We could go to breakfast."

"And lunch," she answered as she pulled their clasped hands to her mouth.

"Dinner, too." It was his voice's turn to break slightly at the contact. "There's a place near the Passeig de Gracia I love."

"Maybe walk through some of Gaudi's houses? I love them." She closed her eyes as she nestled their hands against her breast.

"Perfect," he said softly as his other hand brushed her stomach, across flesh that jumped at the movement, and found its place, curving under her hip, the tips of his fingers light against that secret line at the top of her thigh, the touch alone making her dark eyes flicker open. Her own hand released his, moved up to bridge his legs, to trap what had already begun to move, what was already _hers, _and the wild rush of possessiveness made her lips part, and his own opened as he leaned down to kiss her. Her skin filled his hands as his head nudged between her thighs, breath and tongue together and she was not silent this time, not before she took him in her mouth, and he was not quiet when he turned her again so they were face to face, one arm cradling her, the other grasping her hand, hers on his face as they sought it again, only this time it was not shattering, but soothing, a wash of warmth that made them both smile as they twined together, dessert forgotten as light and sound collided outside.

* * *

><p>He remembered his usual six a.m. breakfast at five when he awoke again, and managed not to wake her as he called to cancel it. It was bluish around the edges of the sky, the clouds still thinking about wrecking the weather, and the day that he did not expect to have began to stretch in front of him. He knew where he wanted to take her to breakfast, and an idea about how to get there began to play in his mind as he felt her shift against him and he smiled and drew her closer as his eyes closed again.<p>

Her eyes blinked open, a momentary confusion at the blue-black sky through plate glass. _Barcelona,_ she thought. _Bed, jet, rain, chocolate._

_Matthew._

He was curled around her, his face in her hair, one arm around her waist, the other a pillow under her neck, and as her limbs fluttered and stretched involuntarily, his arm tightened and she felt_ happy. _She knew a hundred other things she should be feeling, all variations on _worry _and _selfish _and she just couldn't muster them, not yet.

"You wake up this early every day?" His chest rumbled against her back and she grinned at the words.

"Don't you?"

"Only to work out." His mouth rested on her shoulder. "And I'm not feeling the need to hit a treadmill this morning."

"Good," she murmured. "Because you're not getting me anywhere near one."

"So," he began, and his arm tightened again. "Maybe sleep some more?"

"Maybe," she whispered. "Or shower? Or there's that bathtub. Which for some reason is in the bedroom..." Her foot extended across the sheets and pointed at it, and his own leg came out and retrieved hers, winding it back against his own.

"I was thinking," he muttered against her ear. "A shower. And then breakfast, but not here. In the city. I have an idea about how to get there, if you're up for it."

"As long as it doesn't involve a jet." Her back arched slightly as his hand slipped lower.

"No jet," he replied. "Although I can't guarantee I won't go fast."

She gasped, her own hand sliding up to grip the back of his neck. "Fast is perfectly all right."

He was not fast at that moment, taking his time easing her forward, finding his way into her, his fingers light and insistent across her breasts and between her legs as he thrust gently, slowly, over and over again until she cried out and stilled, limp in his arms as he shuddered against her back, and she was not fast in the shower as she explored every inch of him, hands slipping soap over his skin, noting each reaction with a grin, allowing him to wash her hair, his strong fingers against her scalp enough to make her moan.

* * *

><p>"I thought you promised it wouldn't involve a jet," she said wryly as he handed her a helmet.<p>

"Do I need to remind you of the differences between a two-cylinder and a reaction engine?" He patted the BMW's seat. "It's a much more trustworthy engine. Unless you really don't want to?" Matthew took her hand. "Tempting fate?"

"No," she said with a grin and buckled on the helmet. "Does the difference involve thrust? I forget."

"And number of strokes," he whispered naughtily as she climbed on and wrapped her arms around his waist.

_Happy,_ she thought.

It was in the middle of the city, and he wound through traffic confidently, up cobbled streets until he stopped in front of a tiny courtyard with a dark door beyond, where one could find coffee, tea, pastries and an absurdly wide array of newspapers accompanied by a jukebox that seemed to be locked in 1977. They curled into chairs outside, with newspapers and mugs and the sounds of a city coming to life around them, and began their morning together as they had always begun it separately. He read analysis from _Negocio_ on Spanish banks, and she grinned at how _Handelsblatt_ described her takedown of German officials in Lisbon. They fought briefly over the sole copy of the _Financial Times, _and she agreed to let him have it. "But only if you read out loud," she said. "I can't have you knowing something before I do."

And he did, and she nursed her tea, his voice thrumming through her, and if anyone had asked about that morning's op-eds, she wouldn't have remembered a word.

* * *

><p>There was a queue at the museum, as there had always been, and they stood with the other tourists, her hand in his, head upon his shoulder, as the line of people inched toward the entrance. "I miss this," he said suddenly, quietly, his lips in her hair.<p>

"Queues?" she asked with a grin.

"Acting my age, or rather the age I never acted," he replied, and she turned her head to kiss him gently.

"We've been adults forever," she reminded him.

"Too much and too long. Why did we do that?"

She nestled against his shoulder again. "Little sisters," she began. "And we never took a break after that. Not until.." She took a breath. "Now."

"You're right." He let go of her hand and pulled her close, her head tucking under his chin. "A break."

The line did not inch slowly enough for him to hold her there forever as he would have liked.

It was as she remembered, the coolness of stone as they entered, the first room a shock of paintings and sketches that came not from the hands of an old man, but from a mere child, a teenager who already showed terrifying promise. Hand in hand, Mary and Matthew silently stared at each one, eyes flicking to each other, words unnecessary as they passed into a darkened chamber, the sketches under glass too fragile for the sunlight blocked by sweeping cloth.

"This one," she suddenly whispered and stopped.

He looked down at the aged paper, the charcoal and pencil rough on the page. A farmer in a field, simple lines, smudges, imperfect, and yet Matthew could feel the heat of that field, the warmth of the stone wall, almost smell the summer air, and knew it was cool under those trees in the distance.

"He was seventeen," she whispered. "And all I have to do is look at it and I'm in France. I wanted Eddie to see it, but she never..." She stopped.

"Does Eddie like art?" he asked.

"Eddie paints," she said slowly.

"Therapy?"

"You could say that." There were people waiting, and she tugged at his hand. "Come on."

He bought a postcard of the sketch, insufficient at evoking the same feelings, but it gave him a link to her in a way that made him feel quite unlike himself, soft and sentimental, and he wanted that feeling to continue. They left the museum and wandered the streets, winding up into the Barri Gòtic, slipping into courtyards and sitting by fountains, marveling at the jungles inside, leaning against the high walls and watching the people go by. They did not take a single photograph, and they did not speak of work, only of food and what they wanted to eat next, and after some lengthy discussion which to an outsider might have sounded like an argument, they settled on seafood as close to the sea as possible. They ate clams again, this time the tiny, perfect ones she remembered from her childhood, and a whole fish, smoky from the grill. Matthew flicked a bone at her, and she retaliated with a slice of lemon, and they felt entirely childish as they polished off two bowls of sorbet and ice cream. He did not drink, waving the keys at her, and neither did she, so they were still feeling entirely too lively when he suggested Montjuic.

The hills did nothing to slow the motorbike down, the twisting roads leading to its top flying by until he came to a stop near the castle. They walked along a narrow path to a grassy garden, and he flung himself down in the sun, his face tilted to the sky and he let out a contented sigh as she decided to use his chest as a pillow. "Have you checked your email recently?" he asked as his hand began to tangle in her hair.

"God, no," she replied. "Today, we are not adults. Anyway, it rings if it's urgent or if it's someone I care about."

"So no one cares about us today."

"Thank God," she said and took hold of his hand.

* * *

><p>Aurelie sighed miserably as she caught another glimpse of herself in the glass. <em>Pink,<em> she thought. _With my hair._ Her younger sister, the flawless Amelie, whose dark hair looked good with whatever she wore, flicked back her veil and stared meaningfully at Aurelie. "Yes," Aurelie said mechanically. "You do look beautiful."

They moved outside once they knew Mathieu was inside Les Invalides, at the front under the flags that lined the high interior. Aurelie fixed her sister's train again, silently wishing she could step on it at the perfect moment inside the church, and just as she was about to snap at her sister to stop moving, she looked up to see a tall, blond man in an impossibly perfect suit. _Dior Homme... Hedi Slimane vintage _she processed as she stood up.

"_Bonjour," _Greg murmured as he kissed her on both cheeks. "I'm glad I brought my camera for this."

"I will kill you," she said slowly. "But God, I'm glad you're here."

He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "It's good to see," and he slid into German. "_That your sister is as vengeful as you. Only sisters put redheads in pink. But you should know that you, unlike every other redhead on earth, are pulling it off." _He let go and gave her a little push. "Which side should I sit on? And where can I get the best angle for photographs?"

"Dead," she said with a smile. "And on the left."

* * *

><p>"However did you manage?" The sun was tipping into setting, the light now golden, and they had barely moved on the grass, and had only just begun to talk after more than an hour of silence, of gentle kisses, of ignoring that which had been following them around all day, and even now, they did not want to think of it.<p>

"I had to get a place of my own, so she'd have a place to call home," he said. "There were distant relatives, but after what happened... it really was just us, and it had to be me who took care of her. And I was already doing well in school, but just knowing I was all Alice had made me work even harder, and she did, too. Somehow, we both knew it was up to us to survive and succeed. And I think we did."

She snorted. "Modest."

He kicked her feet, and she kicked back. "How did you manage?"

"I wish I'd been older. Sybil and I were at Rosey. Eddie was still at home. I ended up moving my roommate out and Sybil in because she.." Mary curled a little closer. "She had nightmares and would wake up crying for Maman. Eddie apparently screamed the house down. I wanted to come home, but Papa..." She shuddered. "He wouldn't allow it, told us Eddie would be all right, and Maman wouldn't want us to stop going to school. So Sybil and I stuck together, and I called Eddie nearly every night, and when I finally graduated, and Sybil and I could finally go home, we planned our summer at the farm like always and that was the beginning of the end."

"How?"

"He married Charlotte." She sat up. "No more. Not now." She squinted at the sky. "What's next?"

* * *

><p>He was charming to all, his manners impeccable in any language, and Aurelie found herself entirely relieved at her impulsive decision to invite Greg to her sister's wedding. He had bewitched her mother, keeping her occupied as the wedding party made its way to the beautiful old officers' club on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and delighted her father with his encyclopedic knowledge of the kinds of wines Papa adored. She had left them to change, relieved her sister had been generous enough not to force her to wear that ridiculous color all night, and when she returned, strolling down the staircase, she was pleased to see the smile that erupted on his face when he saw her. "Well done," he murmured as she spun in front of him, the pale beige silk rippling around her ankles, and he took hold of her in an impromptu dance that sparked applause. "You won," he whispered wickedly, and her arms tightened around him as she thought sadly, and not for the first time, that this was a complete shame and waste.<p>

* * *

><p>Matthew took his time going down Montjuic, stopping to look at the Palau Nacional, and the fountains, and the sun was well on its way down by the time they reached the streets below. "La Pedrera, and then drinks at the hotel?" She nodded. "I'm going to take the long way through town," he said.<p>

And they saw the city together, her hands stroking his sides at the stoplights, pointing out places they'd each been, and he parked near the wild, undulating facade of La Pedrera, and they walked through its attics and apartment, wandered its rooftop and he found himself wanting a souvenir again, one of the strange-faced chimney replicas, if only to forever remember the sight of Mary leaning against the real thing, her hand stretching toward his in the waning light. The final ride back to the hotel was entirely too short, too little time to feel her pressed against his back, her hands against his chest, and he left the bike with the concierge with some regret, wishing he could keep it and take it out tomorrow again with her, perhaps north, or..

"My room?" she asked softly as the elevator doors closed. "Come over for a cocktail before dinner?"

He laughed.

"What's so funny?"

Matthew leaned to her ear. "Cocktail or cock.. tail? Which is it?"

The doors opened and she backed away from him, eyes not leaving his. "Both, I should imagine."

* * *

><p><em>This is absurd<em>, Greg thought, as the music, initially decent dance music, morphed into dreadful, but apparently hugely popular 80s and 90s French pop. _I've eaten my weight in macarons, never mind all the rest of the food and just danced for a solid hour. _ He looked at Aurelie, who was regarding her sister's mad hopping with no small degree of amusement. "More champagne?" he asked.

"I think it's time for Scotch. Or brandy. Or anything that isn't bubbling around like her." Aurelie grinned up at him and kicked off her heels. "I'd leave, only this is frankly too much fun. Thank you," she added suddenly. "For coming. You've been wonderful."

"You're welcome. When are we going to Noma?"

"Whenever I can get reservations, and whenever you're up for a weekend in Denmark. I'm glad you were right. It'll be fun to finally eat there."

"Yes, it will." He stood and went to the bar, and her eyes followed him as he selected two drinks and brought them back. She noticed three men checking him out, and noted absently that he did not seem to see them. "Cheers," he said as he handed her a snifter.

"Cheers."

And she drank it slowly, and he pulled her feet up into his lap as they watched everyone else dance.

* * *

><p>Mary handed him a Negroni, and Matthew grinned at the memory. "Bitter," he said as they clinked rims.<p>

"Not anymore," she answered and led him out to the terrace.

She was warm in his arms as they looked out across the water, swaying slightly to the music wafting from the pool deck several floors below, and he was suddenly, crushingly happy in a way he could not bear to think would be over, this permission to touch and hold put back in a box never to be opened again. His arms wrapped even more firmly around her and his mouth found her neck again. "Mary," he whispered. "What happens to us on Monday?"

She froze, pulling herself from his arms, backing into the railing. "Us," she said quietly.

And for the first time, as they looked at each other, they did not know what the other one meant.

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Thank you all for your reviews/tweets/flails/graphics/gifsets/betas/support. I'm honored beyond words and I'm so glad you're enjoying it. The chapter's song is "Let's Go Out Tonight" which is on Craig Armstrong's __The Space Between Us.__ (The song playing at the pool? I'll let you guess.)_

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><p><strong>Preferred Stock 11?**

The music from the pool seemed to get louder somehow and it thumped in Matthew's head as he stared at Mary, her eyes and cheeks suddenly wet. She was only an arm's length away from him, but he had the terrifying sensation that she was retreating, and he had to keep himself from reaching for her.

"Monday," she said.

"Christ," he muttered.. "I shouldn't have said anything, I should have waited."

"Until when? We run into each other in the lift?" She leaned against the rail and smiled sadly. "It has to be discussed."

But they were silent instead, the music wafting up, the lyrics stinging both of them, the richly bitter taste of the Negronis oddly appropriate as the last of the sun's light finally disappeared and the deep orange-red along the horizon gave way to blue.

"Another?" She held up her glass, and he shook his head.

"Mary..."

"It's selfish, you know," she said suddenly. "To think we could do this. To think that we could..." She laughed, her head falling back to stare at the sky. "Ethics Violations at Crawley Martin Thorpe, says the Financial Times. CNBC opens Squawk Box with 'Stockholders want to know if Mary Crawley slept with the chairman before or after he ousted Patrick Thorpe.' The New York Times blogs report that Matthew Crawley and Mary Crawley, no relation of course, personally signed off on the anti-fraternization policy they brazenly violated." She brought the glass to her mouth, taking what little liquor was left. "Six months, Matthew. Six months of work, of an entire company coming to life again, all those people... all of them, every single person who works for us, every investor, everyone depending on us to..." She sighed. "Selfish."

"And perception is reality." He repeated Alastair's favorite line.

"Perception is reality," she whispered.

"Just once," he burst out. "Just once, I wish it was about us. About me or you, about doing what I want to do, what you want to do. Nobody else, just us. Just once."

She took his glass, and hers, and put them down, her icy hand finding his. "Matthew, last night, today..." Mary's thumb stroked his. "Tonight. This is about us."

He pulled her close, arms twining around each other easily, as if they had been doing this for years, not hours. "So there is an _us?"_

She shook, and he could not tell if it was a laugh or a sob. "Of course there's an _us_, Matthew. There's just nothing to be done about it right now."

"Now," he repeated, his voice steady. "Can you and I keep working together, knowing... this? Without anyone else ever knowing?"

"I can," she said slowly, her fingers playing along his chin as she nestled against his shoulder. "Haven't we been doing just that? Or have I imagined it?"

Matthew kissed her eyes, her nose, the corner of her mouth. "Have I been that obvious?"

"No, you've behaved beautifully. We've behaved.." She kissed him then, hard, demanding, her breath a hissing intake when they broke apart. "Quite properly."

"It's one thing," he gasped as her lips went to his throat, "To behave with no memory of this. And quite another..." He put her down on the white, hard chair behind her, sinking to his knees, pushing her legs apart, tugging at the hem of her long dress, pushing it to the middle of her thighs as she fell back against the cushion.

"Not here," she whispered.

And so he lifted her again as he had the night before, took her to bed as he had the night before, only this time there was no laughter, only a desperate need to _know_, to mark and soothe, to taste, to _feel_ so that once again, each one would know what the other meant.

* * *

><p>"You seem obsessed with hydration," she croaked out as he handed her the bottle of water he'd half-drained.<p>

"I like you wet," he said as he sat up and stretched.

"That cannot happen in the office." She flicked a few drops at him and arched her back again, flexing her ankles with a satisfying crack.

"I should hope not," he replied. "Sex is entirely inappropriate in the office environment. Everyone knows that."

"I mean," she said as she rolled toward him and slid her body up his back, breasts brushing his spine. "That kind of talk. Anything that even.. I won't be able to keep a straight face." She nibbled at his cheek as she hugged him.

"Very well," he said as his hands came up to find hers. "It'll be hard, though."

"Stop it." But she was laughing, and his eyes met hers in the half-mirror of the window, the lights of Barceloneta edging the Mediterranean below, and the awful knowledge that this would not last made her shiver. "Is it terrible to want to just order room service again?"

"No." He stroked her arm. "But I want to take you to dinner tonight. I don't know when..." He left it hanging as he stood up, lifting them both and she tightened her arms around his shoulders again as he carried her into the shower, and as she knotted up her hair, the promise they had made to each other only minutes before, as he lay in her arms, still inside her, _tonight as if we can, as if it's possible _rang through her mind.

"I know," she said, as she pressed her face against his back. "I hope my dress is salvageable."

* * *

><p>It was, the slim knit tracing every angle and curve as he slipped it back over her head. She found her bracelet on the bed and slid it back on her arm as he buttoned up his pale blue shirt and ran his hands through his hair. "Where are we going?"<p>

"A place I fell in love with when they had the IMF meeting here and they made us all stay at the Mandarin," he said. "It's like New York and Paris rolled into one. You'll see." He offered his arm, and as she took it, he leaned down and let his lips linger against her forehead. "Mary, earlier... why did that upset you at first? Besides what we said, besides what everyone would think?"

"You said 'us,'" she murmured. "And it was lovely."

She made the taxi drop them off near Casa Batlló so they could stare up at the dragon-scale roof, at the wild balconies and windows, and they walked without speaking up the wide boulevard until he took two short turns and they came upon a small place, awning extended over an open door and plate glass windows. It was packed, but they had a table saved, so Mary and Matthew squeezed in, the noise and bustling cheer suddenly welcome. They ordered wine, and much to the amusement of the waiter, argued over the selection of plates, with Mary pointing out he'd have to get his own _carpaccio huevos fritos_ because she wasn't sharing hers.

"You're like a nightmare tourist," he said as he watched her mash up the nearly raw egg yolk into the crispy fried potatoes. "It's egg and chips."

"Cretin," she said and swirled the fork in her mouth. "It's nothing like egg and chips." She pointed at his plate. "Can I have some of your oysters?"

"No," he said. "Get your own."

There was a bit of a standoff with forks, and he thought if someone at this moment chose to take a picture of them, they would look less like two of the most powerful executives in the world and more like two children who shouldn't be allowed to eat in proper restaurants, and even as they grinned at each other across the tiny table, he found that he felt irrevocably sad. Not even the dessert, a play on French toast that made them both swoon in memory of great New York brunches, could cheer him, and as she sneaked the last bite away from him, her eyes and her lips told him she felt exactly the same way.

* * *

><p>They walked a few blocks down the Passeig de Gracia, slowly, looking in shop windows without really seeing, always hand in hand. She thought of the way his skin felt against hers when she tucked her face against his neck, and he tried to memorize the scent of her hair, the feel of it under his lips. "It's six months," he said quietly.<p>

"It has been six months," she said.

"No, I mean, it's six months until the... until we decide if we get paid and if we get bonuses again." His arm wound around her shoulder. "Mary, I never intended to stay past that, if things were working."

She stopped. "You'd leave?"

"Yes."

She let go of him. "You'd walk away from the firm just like that?"

"I didn't take the job to grow old in it. I came to.." He held his breath. "Prove to myself I could fix the unfixable. Only it's not me that's fixing it."

"Matthew..."

"Listen." He embraced her, his mouth close to her ear. "I'm not talking about Alastair. At the beginning, his expertise mattered and his name mattered. But whose name is in the news? Who's quoted constantly, and for all the right reasons? Who is the smartest person in the world right now after Friday's IPO debacle? You. And at the rate we're going... the rate you're going... by the time we hit December, the shareholders won't want anyone but you. I'll be the guy who left. That's what I want. That's what I've always wanted."

"But what if things aren't working? What if it's clear the shareholders want only you?"

"They won't."

"But what if they do?"

"Mary. They won't. And then I can leave and then..." His fingers pushed back her hair and he kissed her, gently.

"Matthew." Her lips fluttered against his. "Where would you go?"

"Ask me again in six months, Mary." His upper lip brushed hers, felt that perfect, sculpted dent against his skin, and their foreheads touched as the noise of the city whirled around them. Lights turned, people walked by, and no one noticed that the lives of one man and one woman had changed irrevocably on that small square of sidewalk.

"Six months," she said quietly. "All right."

There was nothing more that could or would be said. He waved down a taxi, and she curled against him, legs over his as they raced through the city and along the long stretch to the hotel. They made their morning arrangements separately with the concierge _car to airport on 10:40 flight, of course we'll have your breakfast at seven is there anything else we can bring you tonight _and they entered the elevator without a glance at the other. It was not until the doors opened on the 21st floor that anything was said, and it was Mary who looked at Matthew and whispered "mine."

At first, they were greedy_, _possessive, even selfish, his mouth on her neck as the door shut, as she kicked off her sandals and let him put her against the wall, his hands already working off her dress again, her legs twisting around him. She could not get him close enough, even after tearing his shirt away, the irrational, aching need to tear open his chest and crawl inside striking her as she bit softly at his shoulder. Wrists were pinned, first his as she pushed him to the floor and forced him on his back, naked above him, teasing him as she dragged her cheek the length of him, and then hers as he took his time tasting every part of her, lingering over the back of her right thigh and the heated skin of her breasts, already flushed from his touch. It was fury, madness, need that drove them both, everything forgotten save the feel of her around him, the sensation of him inside her, the sound of her cries, his gasps before he collapsed in her arms, and then she kissed him.

She kissed him, and for what seemed like hours they did nothing else, first wrapped together on the floor, then on the bed, slowly and sweetly, the smiles in between both breaking their hearts and sending them skyward.

And then they talked, of places they had only seen from hotel rooms and business dinners, of cities where they had dreamed of escaping, of feeling entirely alone in rooms full of people. Matthew spoke about Alice, about how proud he was of her success, but that it made him happiest to know that they had grown up to be friends. Mary ran a bath as she told him of Sybil's meteoric rise at the Guardian, and then they spoke of absolutely nothing as she crawled into the bath on top of him, fitting together as if they'd done this a thousand times. Only the sound of water off skin filled their ears, time forgotten again, and later she could only remember the ease of it, how naturally it all came to both of them, this ability to satisfy the other, this _need _to please the other.

They dried each other, shivering slightly, and wrapped up in the duvet, they were silent again as he laid his cheek on her breast and she played with his hair. _A lifetime in one weekend, _she thought sadly. There was no sleep that night that either could remember, only quiet punctuated by sounds,the rustle of cotton against them, her voice and his mingling, words they had never said before, promises they had never made before, and then, one last, heart-wrenching time, he came inside her, the air around them gone, and she kissed his eyes as he rested. "Six-thirty," she told him, and he finally dragged himself up and away from her. He laughed when he realized their clothes were all in the other room, and when he re-emerged, clothed and rumpled, she laughed with him, kneeling up so she could put his hair into some semblance of order.

"Don't," he groaned. "I'll just get undressed all over again." His hands danced over her, finally wrapping around her waist and pulling her up against him. "This," he said softly as he held her. "I want to be able to do this every day, every morning."

"Six months," she whispered. "And every day I'll be thinking the same thing."

"No," he said after a moment. "That doesn't make it better." He let go, reluctantly, and she sank back into the bed. "I'll see you downstairs, Mary."

"Matthew." He turned back, and her heart constricted at his face, at the slightly parted lips, his beautiful eyes, that unruly lock of hair across his forehead. "Us," she said softly.

"Us," he replied.

* * *

><p>She ached for him already, her breakfast barely touched, the tea all she could stomach. She could not begin to comprehend that when she saw him again, she would not be able to touch him, save for the safest of handshakes or friendly greetings. Her text alert trilled, and for a moment she <em>hoped... <em>But it was Eddie, telling her to keep the plane in the air, and asking what she wanted for dinner. **Sybil and Felix are coming, so prepare for a lecture on the Leveson inquiry. **

It hurt to look at her in the lobby, to know what was under that fabric, what that slip of skin beneath that shirt tasted like, to see the shadows under her eyes that spoke both of sleeplessness and sadness. They were silent in the car, and as they walked through the concourse to the gate, they barely looked at one another. Mary was both disappointed and relieved to find they were not seated together, although the look on his face as he glanced at her in the cabin made her want to cry. She curled up in her seat, declining drinks and food as she slipped off her shoes, and as the plane lifted off, and Barcelona fell away below her, she let the tears come, knowing he would not see them.

He was restless on the flight, desperately wanting to stand, to look back three rows and see her, but it could not be done, and he consoled himself with music, songs he had not listened to in years, lyrics he had all but forgotten now suddenly, sickeningly true. _Six months, _he thought again and it made him slightly ill. He had been longing for her for six months, and just that taste was enough to make him absolutely certain that his plan of leaving as soon as this year ended was the only possible choice.

There were a dozen people separating them in the passport line, and once he passed through, he could not find her near the baggage claim. His phone rang just as he spotted the driver, who was curiously with a second man, taller than himself. "Hello?"

"Mr. Crawley? It's Jason Soltz."

His pulse jumped at the sound of the firm's security chief's voice. "Yes?"

"We tried to reach you earlier, but you were in flight. I'll get to the point. We're not entirely happy with what happened to the jet, and we're not entirely sure it wasn't sabotaged. We're putting a detail on you and on Miss Crawley until further notice."

"Sabotage? You're joking."

Jason did not laugh. "The mechanics didn't like the look of it, and until I'm sure that they're sure it wasn't deliberate, I'm keeping details on you both. There should be one of my men with your driver right now."

Matthew eyed the man. "Yes."

"Please ask for his identification. His name is Chris Lebedeva."

Matthew rolled his eyes at the cloak and dagger, and once he'd seen the man's ID (and his freakishly large hands) and Jason had informed him he would not be using his motorcycle for some time to come, he hung up just as he saw Mary with an equally imposing bodyguard. "Mine's taller," he said quietly as he walked up to her.

"I can't believe it," she replied. "It's that one," she said to her driver, pointing at the black case. She turned back to Matthew, eyebrows quirking up. "Alastair left me a message to apologize. Says it can't be helped until they clear the investigation."

"Who on earth..."

"It doesn't matter," she said smoothly. "What will you do with the rest of your day?"

She was a foot away and he couldn't do what he desperately wanted, _needed _to do. "Go see Alice, I think. You?"

"Eddie's making dinner and Sybil's coming with Felix. I will be quizzed on the Leveson inquiry at a level Rupert Murdoch would find intrusive." She laughed. "And apparently, this bodyguard will be joining me."

"No driving for a while." He indicated his own bag to the driver, and realized this was it. "Until tomorrow, then."

She nodded, arms crossed, and smiled up at him. "Tomorrow."

"Eddie's making dinner?" he asked suddenly. "You know, when you said she was hurt, and that she lived with you, I thought... well, I thought that she wasn't.. I didn't think of her as being able." Mary let out a small sigh. "I'm sorry, that seems odd and rude, it's just.. You rarely speak of her."

"She limps a little. There's a scar on her face, which she hates." Mary paused. "She doesn't talk. That's the worst of it. I miss hearing her voice."

"She can't talk?"

"I don't know if she can." She shivered. "Alastair wants to meet at seven-thirty tomorrow to brief on Lisbon before we meet with the rest of the team."

"I'll see you then." He held out his hand. "I'm glad it was us out there."

She smiled as she took it, their thumbs brushing briefly. "I'm glad it was us."

* * *

><p>Alice threw herself into his arms almost before he was out of the car, and he wondered at how to explain the terrifying stranger who insisted on checking the house before he could enter. Alice took it in stride however, remarking that he should have security after all this time.<p>

"You look good," he said as they sat down at the kitchen table and she poured his tea.

"I feel like hell," she muttered. "They keep telling me I'm almost through the worst of it." She looked longingly at his teacup. "I hate having to be good. I just want a bloody cup of tea. Or coffee. Or Camembert. Or something that's bad for me."

"You'll have them eventually."

"I know," She put her head on his shoulder. "I just want them now. I'm awful. Enough about me. How was being trapped in Barcelona with Lady Mary?"

"Mary," he said with a grin. "And it was very nice, to be honest."

"You're blushing!" She poked him in the ribs, as she had done for most of her life. "Matthew's in love with Lady Mary."

He poked her back, gently. "I'm not in love with Lady Mary. Where's Daniel?"

And as Alice went outside to call for her husband, Matthew ruffled his hair and felt his heart swell. _Us,_ he thought with a smile.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: And away we go. Thank you for all your support and reviews... and thanks as always to Eolivet for the brilliant beta. _

_The song is "Waltz" from Craig Armstrong's As If To Nothing._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 12?**

Eddie had always known exactly what her sister Mary was thinking, from her earliest memories of her ten-year-old sister patiently handing her crayons as they would draw at the kitchen table in Lourmarin. She knew then that Mary did not want to draw, knew she preferred to read, but Eddie knew from the way Mary smiled that Mary would sit there forever with her, repeating the colours in French and German as Eddie asked for them in English. Sybil would never do anything Sybil didn't want to do, and so it fell to Mary on those long summer days and nights to admire little Edith's drawings, which were shockingly good even then, and from those early days when Mary would hold up each drawing for Maman to see, Eddie always knew that Mary meant what she said, and exactly what she was thinking when she wasn't saying anything.

Tonight, Eddie could not be sure of anything.

Mary was distracted when she arrived home, nervous for Eddie's sake about the twenty-four hour guard, worried when she heard that a team from Crawley Martin Thorpe's security unit had swept the apartment with Eddie in it, and ultimately relieved to find out Percy had gotten there before the team to tell Eddie and to help her cover the sketches and current canvas. The four women who'd checked every corner of the flat had barely glanced at the art in the studio, far more concerned with the liquids and paints, and by the time Mary arrived with her bodyguard in tow, Eddie had started dinner, mixed drinks, and was back in the studio, cheerfully slapping paint on a canvas. **This should be fun,** Eddie scrawled on the corner. **What's his name?**

"Bert," Mary said. "And don't laugh. He's got a gun." She stared at Eddie for a moment. "Are you going to be all right with this? I can move to a hotel or something until this blows over."

Eddie moved to the computer. **Don't be stupid,** she typed before printing something. **It's my turn to play ninja for you. **

The word should have made Mary laugh, but she was sipping at her aperitif and gazing blankly at the computer screen, and Eddie felt an inexplicable pang of worry.

* * *

><p>Daniel roasted the chicken while Alice sat with Matthew, her head tucked against his shoulder as she gamely tried to drink milk, which she had always hated. "Shouldn't we feed it?" she asked, pointing to the guard outside.<p>

"He says no," Matthew replied. "There are three of them, and they rotate on eight hour shifts. They don't eat on duty. Or seem to move, for that matter. No. Keep drinking." He picked up the glass again.

"You don't understand what it's like to be held hostage like this." Alice pushed it away. "It's making me sick. Give me a few minutes." She glared balefully at it.

"I do know what it's like," Matthew said quietly. "Drink it."

She did, tears trickling out of the corner of her eyes, and she slammed down the glass. "Happy?"

"It's not about me, Alice. Stop it."

"Bully," she whispered as he enveloped her in a hug.

"It could be yoghurt," he said, and she shuddered.

Daniel grinned at Matthew. "You want some milk?"

"God, no."

Alice sat back and wiped her eyes. "You two should have a drink. There's wine. Don't mind me."

"We don't," Daniel said, and poured out two glasses of wine. "You can smell it if you like."

"Ugh, no." She pushed it away. "Starving. Isn't that thing ready yet?"

"It has to sit for fifteen minutes."

"Says who?"

"Says every decent cook this side of Paris, you cretin."

Alice looked to her brother to back her up, but he wasn't listening. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he was looking at his glass of wine in a way that she had never seen before. "Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"Should the chicken sit for fifteen minutes while a starving pregnant woman waits?"

He looked to Daniel for the answer, which only made Daniel laugh and Alice groan again. "Both of you are useless." She reached for the basket and yanked out a chunk of bread. "Call me when it's finished... marinating."

"It's not marinating, it's resting. Totally different thing."

"I'm pregnant. Don't lecture me about culinary technique."

Daniel squinted as she stalked out. "I've been reliably informed this is the worst part." He lifted his glass. "To you not getting wiped out."

"It's the little things." Matthew took a sip and put down the glass. "Seriously, is she all right?"

"If she's complaining, she's fine. It's when she gets quiet now that I get worried. But yes, she's fine and inordinately happy to see you." Daniel pushed that morning's _Sunday Times_ over to him. "Well played here, by the way." He tapped at the third paragraph of the story. "We have no comment, other than the statement made when we chose not to underwrite the IPO.' That's brilliant."

"Not me," Matthew said softly. "That's our group finance director. Mary Crawley."

"No relation, of course," Daniel said.

"Of course."

"Alice!" Daniel called out. "It's ready."

"Coming," she called back.

"She was at Clare, wasn't she? Mary Crawley?" Daniel sliced into the chicken just as Alice reappeared.

"She was. Did you know her?"

"Of her," Daniel looked thoughtful. "We were the same year, but she was almost never around on the weekends. Someone told me she'd jet off to Switzerland all the time. I think everyone was shocked when she got a first, but I wasn't surprised."

"Why?" An edge crept into Alice's voice and Daniel grinned at her.

"Darling, I didn't _know_ her. She just always seemed very focused. Tireless, even, when it came to studying through the week."

_Switzerland_, Matthew thought. _Le Rosey. Her sisters._ He reached for the potatoes, only half-listening to Daniel and Alice as they bantered. _We've been adults forever._

"It was Max, actually, and the only thing he ever said was 'the ice queen does not cometh.'"

The serving spoon clattered to the table. "Sorry," Matthew said.

Alice put the spoon back. "Clumsy," she admonished. He did not reply, and she felt sick, suddenly, not related in any way to the baby, but to his face and the fury that had flashed across it. Daniel rattled on about Max and his attempted conquest of Mary, and Matthew's jaw clenched, his eyes flickering fire, and Alice suddenly _knew. _"I was thinking about Clare as a name for the baby. Is it too silly to name it for my husband's college? I can't possibly name it Gonville or Caius."

There was a moment of silence before the two men started to laugh, and Alice was relieved to see the cheer return to her brother's face, only she could tell his thoughts were far away.

* * *

><p>"That seat's taken," Greg muttered in French as a pair of blue Converse trainers came into view and took up residence in the seat next to him.<p>

"Oh, really? Did you find a new friend since I left you three hours ago?" Aurelie's voice, still hoarse from the night and morning, purred close to his ear.

"I'm sorry," he said as he took in the sight before him. "Since when does Aurelie Prevot wear Converse?"

"We're on a train. On a Sunday afternoon." She crossed her legs gracefully, picking an invisible speck off the white jeans. "And you saw the shoes I was wearing. My feet need a treat, and frankly, they're quite chic."

He smiled. "You make them so." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her fingers. "I hope I did my duty."

"To distract me from the madness of my family? To be a wonderful friend during the most annoying time of my life? Yes." She patted his cheek. "Far better than I ever could imagine. Thank you. I owe you far more than a dinner." Her back melted into the seat and she sighed. "So how is yours?"

"Under surveillance," he replied. "As is yours."

"I know," she muttered. "No motorcycle, no clubs, no freedom. Just work and an oversized Russian watching every move he makes."

"How's he taking it?"

She shrugged. "Like he takes everything that can't be helped. What about her?"

It was his turn to sigh. "She's the same way. If it can't be helped, she just moves on." He closed his eyes, and after checking her phone one last time, Aurelie shut hers as well, just as the train picked up speed leaving Paris.

* * *

><p>"They were protesting outside the auction. Screaming, appropriately enough." Felix spooned the last of his gelato into his wife's mouth, who moaned inappropriately. "Sybil, for God's sake, it's only ice cream."<p>

"You cannot be expected to understand." She wrested the bowl away from him and proceeded to scrape it clean. "What were they screaming?"

"Does it matter? That was Occupy's response to "The Scream" selling for 74 million pounds. Stand outside and scream." He reached for his coffee. "And of course then someone asks me about ordinary people and museums being priced out of art. I don't disagree with them, but the last thing anyone needs are price controls on art. Why me? Why am I always the one who gets asked?"

**You are representing one of the biggest flashes-in-the-pan in history.**

Mary tossed the kitchen sponge at her sister. "You're not a flash-in-the-pan."

**Yet**, Eddie typed, her eyebrows raised ominously at her sister. But Mary did not respond, once again her eyes looking elsewhere, her brows knitted slightly, as if she was remembering something, or thinking something, and she would not share it, not even when Eddie tossed back the kitchen sponge. She merely laughed at her sister and continued to tidy up, and for the first time in her life, Eddie felt a secret between them.

Sybil noticed nothing as she stood up and threw her arms around Mary. "Extraordinarily glad not to have lost you, and wondering about your other new friends besides Bert. Will you be allowing this development to be reported?"

"It's not up to me," Mary replied. "I doubt our security chief would like it, but we've also got the problem of shareholders wanting to know things like this."

"I told you to steer clear of the family business," Sybil muttered and squeezed her sister tightly. "I love you and I'm glad you're safe. Was Matthew a bore?"

Mary flinched. "No, he was all right." _His head on her breast, his lips against... Six months. _

Sybil kissed Eddie's cheek. "Darling, the new sketches are brilliant. Don't forget to read those stories I sent you."

Felix kissed both Eddie and Mary goodbye with an eye roll toward his wife. "The inquiry is making her impossible. Next Sunday at our place?" He grinned wickedly at Mary. "You can bring your new friend."

Bert had been replaced by Scott, who was possibly as wide across the shoulders as he was tall. He made Bert seem positively jovial, and not even a friendly "Thank you" from Mary had made his face flicker as she shut and locked the door, leaving him on the elevator landing.

**You're very quiet.**

"Still a little shaky from that whole... business. I'll be fine." She lifted a smiling face toward Eddie, who was not smiling.

**What happened in Barcelona?**

Mary swept non-existent crumbs off the table. _Everything. _"Nothing, really."

**I'll know whether you tell me or not.**

Mary's phone jangled, and she picked it up. "Jemma," she said quietly as she stared at Eddie. "Yes, of course, tomorrow. I need it. I'll see you then." She rang off. "It's not what you think, Eddie."

**I don't think anything. I just know something's different.** She watched Mary for a full minute before she shook her head, picked up a bottle of San Pellegrino and limped back into her studio.

"Eddie," Mary began, but the door was shut, and the music began, loud and angry, and Mary began to cry.

And Eddie, whose own eyes were swimming, bent over her sketch pad and began, broad strokes at first, and then smaller and smaller, the claw of the monster reaching toward the three tiny figures in the corner as the tallest of the three held out her own hand.

* * *

><p>Alice's yawn settled it and Matthew collected the books Alice had insisted he take with him. "I'll walk you out," she said, her arm around his back. They stopped before the door, Alice eyeing the bodyguard with a wry frown. "For some reason, he doesn't make me feel better about this. How do you feel?"<p>

"Caged," he admitted. "But it can't be helped." He smiled down at his sister. "How you feel is far more important."

"One more week, I'm told, and then I shall be sick-free and desperate for.. Oh, never mind. I'm not sharing that much with you." She hugged him fiercely. "Thank you for coming down to see me."

"Anytime," he whispered back.

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"Do you like Mary?"

There was too much of a pause before he could say a word, and the only person who knew him better than himself laughed at it. "Oh, Matthew. Of all the gin joints..."

"Don't." He let go of her abruptly. "Of course I like Mary. She's successfully executed my vision for the company's rebirth."

"That's not quite what I meant." She leaned against the wall. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing." He pushed his hair back. "We can't. Not now. Not while everything's working."

"I warned you," she said softly.

* * *

><p>He secretly loved St. Pancras. Arriving via Eurostar always made him feel a little bit James Bond-ish, and with Aurelie next to him, it was perfection, and he laughed at himself for the fantasy.<p>

"What?" she murmured. "You can't keep laughing like that. I'll think it's me."

"It is you," he said. "Thank you again for a wonderful time. I can't guarantee you'll have as much fun if I ever take you to a wedding in Iowa."

"You and I will always find a way to have fun," she replied. "Thank you for not taking any pictures of the pink dress."

"Oh," he said. "I did. You just haven't seen them." He kissed her quickly on the cheek. "Tomorrow, then. They have a seven-thirty with Alastair before the big briefing."

"Bastard," she said. "Good night."

He slung his bag over his shoulder and watched her walk away. "Aurelie?"

"Yes?" She stopped and turned back.

"Are you going for the...?" He twirled his hand up.

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yes." His face was sad, apologetic almost, and for a moment she thought perhaps she might... Instead, she smiled in response.

"May the best man win, then."

He laughed.

"What?" she asked.

"You have bigger balls than anyone I know."

"Charming," she said. "And true. Game on."

* * *

><p>The sleek black car pulled up in front of the ivy-covered house, which gave every appearance of being warm and welcoming, but for some forty years, it had been anything but. The driver placed the bags inside the front hallway and departed without a word, and everything was silent, the housekeeper long gone, likely fast asleep in the lodge. Alastair had wanted to sell the place, break himself of the memories, and had moved into a flat when he put it on the market, but he could not sleep anywhere else, could not bear to cut the ties he had to the house in Wimbledon Village, and so he returned, letting decorators change the walls, the rugs, and the furniture, save for one chair which would not be altered, and one room that would stay untouched.<p>

He went to that room now, as he had done for decades, and he cursed himself for hoping as he always did that when he opened that door, green eyes would meet his, and a lilting voice would remind him that he needed to knock.

"_Daddy, it's my room."_

But it was cold and dark, and he shut the door gently before walking down the hall to his own room, where he would only sleep on the right side of that vast bed, where he could see the tattered, faded chair in front of the window, and where, when his eyes would open in the morning, he would see Marina's picture before anything else.

* * *

><p>Matthew read three analyses, tried to watch an American documentary on banking, and finally turned off everything except his stereo and his treadmill and started running. He wanted to run outside, run the river, run anywhere, but the bodyguard looked at Matthew as if he'd proposed running the Sahara, so he pounded at the machine, his legs a blur, pushing himself into five six-minute miles, up and down fake hills until his lungs burned. The program ended, he stumbled into the shower, and was assaulted yet again by the memories he had tried to run down.<p>

_Water droplets on her skin, rivulets down her back, between her legs, the scent of her, of lemons, of a spicy-rich oil he had half-thought of stealing from her bag, her mouth..._

_Her mouth._

That his bed would be empty was almost unbearable now, he thought as he dried himself off and slid between the sheets. _Her feet toying with his legs, her thighs against his... _He glanced at his iPhone.

_Missed Call – Mary Crawley._

* * *

><p>The music had stopped, but the door had not opened, and Mary knew better than to go inside, and so after reading the analyses for the morning meeting, she had showered, her own hands on her skin making her think of his, the loneliness painful inside her. A moment of madness overcame her, and she was relieved when it went unanswered. <em>Idiot,<em> she thought to herself as she twisted in her sheets, the cold cotton no substitute for his skin. _Six months._

Her phone rang.

It rang four times before she finally swiped it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mary. It's Matthew."

_Formal. Irreproachable. Everything we say_, she thought. If she closed her eyes, she could believe he was here. "Did you get home safely?"

"I did, yes. Thank you. How was dinner?"

"Very nice, thank you. I wanted to know if you looked at the briefs for tomorrow?"

"Yes. I think it's up to us to convince the rest of the team that the Spain plan is going to be difficult to execute."

She smiled so hard it hurt, her heart almost stopping. "It'll have to be done, though. There's no way around it for us. Not for at least six months."

"You and I might find a way, though. Something might arise."

"It usually does." Mary buried her face in her pillow, stifling the laugh that bubbled up inside.

"So seven-thirty tomorrow." His voice was odd for a moment, and she wondered if he was having the same trouble she was.

"I'll be in by seven."

"Love that attitude," he said softly, and he could hear a little hum from her throat. "I'll be in as well."

"Love that dedication," she replied carefully, and she heard him sigh. "Good night, Matthew."

"Good night, Mary."

And as they both clicked off, the other's last breath was in their ears, and for a moment, they were in the same room, the same bed, and he could almost taste her as his eyes closed, and she could almost believe it was his skin against hers and that she would see him when her eyes opened in the morning.

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: I love you all for reading this. Thanks to Eolivet as always for her lovely beta skills – go read "IF" right now if you aren't already.. it's BRILLIANT - and to everyone who's made all the pretty gifsets and graphics... wow, love, blush. And thank you to suicideblonde, who has turned into Mary's stylist._

_A quick disclaimer – the yoga pose described here should not be tried by anyone unless fully warmed up, trained, AND supervised._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 13?**

He could not focus. His rituals failed him that morning. When the pings began, he awoke with a groan, wanting only what he had been dreaming of, and no amount of espresso, or circuit training, or CNBC Asia's lyrical praise of Crawley Martin Thorpe's escape from the IPO debacle could make him stop thinking of velvety skin against his, the scent of her hair against his face, or the way her body would ripple and stretch like a cat's as she awoke. Matthew realized as he slung the weights back on the rack that he had absolutely no idea if or how she worked out. She had to, he thought with a grin, remembering the strength under the silk, the flexibi... _Stop it._

* * *

><p>She did not want to move. She heard Jemma, heard the heat click on, felt herself awaken fully, and yet she wanted to remain still and believe that it was his hand tracing her cheek and not her own, brushing away tears of frustration. "Do it," she said quietly, and flipped her feet onto the floor, pulling on the thin shorts and top as she walked into the heated room and lay down on the mat.<p>

"Glad you're alive," Jemma said quietly. "Ready?"

She was ready, but as she went through the series, she could not clear her mind of him. Compartmentalization had been like breathing to her for years, the ease with which she could put family, work, and relationships into separate places something even Sybil had found impressive. Yet she could not get Matthew out of every part of herself at this moment. Breath, heartbeat, and sweat all made Mary think only of him, of them. _Us. _

And at that thought, as she bent her body back into camel pose, the emotions that every instructor warned of, the emotions to which even Jemma sometimes caved, the emotions Mary prided herself in never letting out, came rushing up in an uncontrollable wave. Tears mixed with the sweat as she tried desperately not to cry through the second one, but it was no use, and she would not meet Jemma's eyes in the mirror through the last of the series until the final exhaled breath when Jemma threw her arms around Mary and held her. "Shh," she whispered. "Let it go."

And Mary did, the heaving sobs shaking both of them, and Jemma did not speak until Mary sucked in one big breath and stopped. "Sorry," Mary whispered.

"Don't apologize," Jemma said. "You never even blink at camel. What happened? This isn't the plane thing, is it? Or your new friend who gave me the stink eye in the hallway? It can't be work."

Mary laughed in spite of herself. "No, it's none of those things. Well, it's a little bit work."

"You and beautiful eyes make out in Barcelona?" She meant it as a joke, but when Mary's eyes grew wide, she put her hands over her mouth. "Oh, God. I was kidding. Mary..."

"Oh, Jemma."

And Mary told her everything.

* * *

><p>He allowed himself to imagine it, to think about waking up next to her every day, sharing breakfast, watching the news, talking about it, dressing together... the idea of her things next to his made him feel quite happy, until he remembered that it would be months before that could happen. He wanted desperately to ride in to work that morning, but the driver was already waiting downstairs, and he allowed himself to be escorted by another giant into the car, the man's bulk barely fitting in the front seat next to the driver. At least he could continue to read the morning papers as the car sped through the streets, and he focused on the rumours that Moody's was about to downgrade banks and not on the memory of her fingers turning pages.<p>

* * *

><p>"I'll give you a lift."<p>

"Thank you." Jemma peered up through the skylights. "Rainy Monday." She pushed her mug of tea aside. "I wish I could give you a lift."

"Ha," Mary said flatly. "Nothing's going to do that." She glanced back over at the studio door, where she could hear things hitting the floor. "That's what I'm worried about."

Jemma gave the door a long look before walking over to it and opening it. "There's tea out here. We're leaving. And stop it. You made your sister cry." She slammed the door and picked up her bag. "Come on." At Mary's incredulous stare, she merely shrugged. "Maida pulls that all the time on Harper. And no, it's not different. Not really." She lowered her voice. "Just tell her tonight. She's come so far."

"I know," Mary said softly. "And thank you. For everything. For coming so early every day, for.."

Jemma cut her off. "Stop. You know as well as I do that this is for me. I wouldn't get a practice in if we didn't do this. Don't thank me for being a friend or for being selfish. That's who we are."

"Selfish friends."

Jemma grinned. "Exactly. Let's go. I can't be the bad mummy who's late for the school run and you can't be the bad executive who's late for work the day after she slept with her boss." Mary was silent.

"Are you in love with him?" The question was almost whispered, and Mary laughed.

"I don't think 'in love' is the right way to put it."

"All right, then. In lust."

And as they slipped into the waiting car, and Jemma got on the phone to make sure her children were awake, Mary realized she had not been entirely honest with Jemma... or herself.

* * *

><p>He stepped into his office ninety seconds before seven, his coffee steaming in its cup and a pot of tea on the tray, presumably for Mary. Aurelie had nodded in approval of his pinstriped suit and striped tie before placing two briefs on his desk. "The FT has an interesting editorial on the Moody's threat."<p>

"I saw it," he said. "It'll be five years too late, of course."

"Moody's?"

He barely looked up. "Yes. Want to place your bets as to who is on the list?"

"Too easy. And it won't be us." Mary dropped gracefully into a chair and reached for the tea. "Good morning, Aurelie."

"Good morning," Aurelie replied. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No. Thank you, Aurelie." Matthew picked up his cup. "Let us know when Alastair arrives?"

"Of course."

The door closed, and they were alone. Eight feet separated them, eight feet and a desk, three security cameras, and a piece of paper both of them had signed off on, a piece of paper that told the FSA and the SEC and all other regulatory bodies of the financial industry that fraternization was not tolerated, that a relationship between people when one is senior to the other would be a violation of the company's code of ethics. She felt dizzy, need rippling through her, and she watched his lips part as he looked at her, up and down, slowly drinking her in. _Move, please, come here, don't move, I can't do this._

"Spain plan day one," he murmured.

"Yes."

And the _frisson _was gone, simultaneously pushed down with painful effort they could see in each other's eyes. They were quiet, sipping their tea and coffee, listening to the chatter from the television screens and glancing up at the two digital tickers on his wall.

"You know, there should be some sort of game today at the firm. Every time the news mentions Facebook, everybody gets a tea break."

He laughed, just as the BBC's graphic changed to Facebook. "An entire day of tea breaks. I liked our non-comment. That was all you."

"No, that was mostly Greg. He has a way with rude and clever. I was going to be merely rude." She poured a second cup. "Have you heard from Jason this morning? About the jet?"

"Yes," he said. "The Gulfstream people are there this morning. We should know more by tonight." He glanced at the door. "Did yours come into the office?"

"He took a look around. Apparently they swept for bugs this morning. At least that's what he told me. He might have been joking. He's a real comedian." She peered over her teacup at him, her heart skipping a beat when he sat in the chair opposite hers.

"Did they find any?"

"Not that he'd tell me about." She picked up her iPad. "Did yours come in?"

"No, I made him stay outside. It's bad enough in this building with all the glass and cameras." He sat back with his own iPad. "Bugs," he said slowly. "What a terrifying thought. Never alone."

Her skin crawled. _Never alone. _Even this, sitting in his office, men and women watching somewhere. Even if she casually bumped his foot as she was so tempted to do right now, it would be recorded somewhere.

"Krugman's hitting the Germans again," he muttered as he read.

"What else is new?" she quipped, and his eyes met hers, glittering and blue, _God, the colour, _and her heart leapt and fell as he smiled.

"It is so quite new a thing," he said, before looking back at his tablet.

It reverberated in her head as something she should know, something she must know, for the words made her warm for a moment, and she was glad he turned up the volume on the televisions, and even gladder to see Alastair, who was abuzz with more Moody's rumours, including a nasty one about nearly all of Spain's banks.

"How was Portugal?" she asked after he was settled with a cup of tea.

"It's been too long," he replied. "Was Barcelona as lovely as I remember it? Did you visit the Picassos?"

"Yes. They all asked about you and send their love," she said mischievously. "It was a nice weekend away. I enjoyed myself."

"Did Matthew?" Alastair turned.

Matthew smiled. "Very much."

And they did not look at each other. Only when the talk turned to the increase in the company's cash cushion did they dare to glance again, and by then it was easy, because it was as it had been for the six months before this turning point. They listened, and talked, and they always knew what the other one meant. Even when it turned to that night's event, the party at the Tate Modern for the company's favored charity, it seemed easier, and for the first time, she began to think and he began to believe that they could do this.

* * *

><p>"Darling?"<p>

She did not look up. "Yes?"

"I think we have something." Percy flung himself into the closest chair and lowered his voice. "The drive is giving up some secrets."

Mary put down her pen and laid her hands flat on her desk. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Percy."

"I'm serious." He took out a stylus and started sketching on his iPad. "The most important thing is determining who was on that conference call. It almost doesn't matter what was said.."

"Almost," she said softly.

"Mary, if we can prove he was on it, it's the first step in clearing any suspicion. Look, the program's isolated... "

"Percy..."

"Do you not want me to keep working on it?" He put down the stylus. "Mary, I know things are going well, but don't you want the whole thing over with? Don't you want everyone to know that you are not to blame?"

"Percy..." She put her head in her hands. "Yes. I do. Eventually. But by everyone, I mean this company. I don't want this made public. We're in too good a position right now to shake it up. If it gives me some power over the board and its members, then yes, I do want to know. But right now, and until I say otherwise, this is between you and me, and it's not on company time."

He sighed dramatically and propped up his feet on her table. "How was the almost-crash? Did you and the chairman confess your darkest secrets?"

She grinned. "No, I told him yours."

"That took all of seventeen seconds." Percy grinned back. "I like him, by the way. Didn't have to explain how that new software worked. He actually read the brief. Shocking how this place is working these days." He peered at his cousin. "I hope you like him."

"Very much," she said.

"Are you going tonight? Will you be my date?"

"What happened to... Oh, God, what's her name? Sorry."

"Holly." He groaned. "She just cancelled on me. Something about BSkyB completely losing it over the sample changing or something. I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about. TV people. So will you?"

"Why not?" _Distraction, keep us separated. _

_Us._

* * *

><p>Mary swung her legs from the car and stood up carefully, smoothing the pale silk, surreptitiously checking for wrinkles in the window behind her before striding forward to the entrance with Percy at her side. <em>Wear art to visit art,<em> she believed, and so as she entered the museum through the special entrance, she was pleased to hear the murmurs _McQueen vintage of course, she was one of his best clients. _

"There's Matthew. Oh, Christ, why do we have to deal with Rob and Charlotte tonight?"

Mary stiffened at the sight of her father and stepmother, chatting easily with Matthew, whose face revealed nothing, and for a moment she allowed herself the luxury of admiring him. His tie was slightly askew, and she resisted the urge to fix it as she and Percy joined them.

"Mary." Her father's voice was strained.

"Rob." It made him flinch, and she wondered why he hadn't gotten used to it by now. "Hello, Charlotte. Brilliant choice to have it here. I understand we'll get a preview of the new space?"

"Oh, thank you. Yes, we're very excited about that. Nothing's in place yet, but it's going to be glorious." And Charlotte, who appreciated nothing more than to be allowed to rattle on, did just that, giving Mary a moment to glance at Matthew, whose face, for the barest of seconds, revealed everything, and she had to look away before her own face gave it all away.

He had steeled himself for this evening, thinking back to countless others before it, when he was able to talk and laugh so easily with Mary. _Remember that, be that,_ he told himself, and turned to ask Mary a question and was instead struck dumb by the sight of something he had seen only in shadow, something he had nuzzled in the half-darkness of the hotel room, something he had touched under the setting sun on Montjuic. The hollow behind her ear, beyond the sharp curve of her jaw and above that silk collar, was bare and bright in the light of the museum's vast hall, and he _needed_ to kiss it, stroke it, taste it again, even in front of all these people who saw them only as the chairman and the group finance director of one of the world's most powerful companies. He let his eye wander down over the silk, exquisitely light, bound at the waist by a brutally tight corset, the buckled leather a fierce contrast to the delicacy of the dress. She was in front of him, close enough for him to reach forward and free her from the leather and silk bindings, the three buckles all that seemed to stand between him and the release he could already feel inside. But they were not alone, and they would never be alone, it seemed, not as long as the real and virtual spotlights existed. He wanted nothing more than to simply hold her again, and there was no possible way he could even try.

There were speeches, and congratulations, and the usual toasts, and Mary was glad her turn as charity head was long over at the company. Not that she had minded overseeing events like this, but it was nice just to be able to pick up a drink and wander off when you wanted to, which was precisely what she was doing. It had been ages since she'd just looked, and so she was parked in front of a Spencer when a voice reverberated through her.

"The family name seems to be all over this building," he said softly. "I might have to start pretending we are related."

He stood only a few inches away and she did not turn her head. "It took eighty-five million pounds in private money to make this place happen, and a lot of it was ours. Pretend away. We're very proud of it." Her voice caught. "It was my mother's pet project, and she died the year before it opened."

"I'm sorry she didn't see it." He glanced at the painting, the Double Nude Portrait and smiled. "Do you like this kind of art?"

"In general. Do you?"

"Some of it." His eyes raked across the painting and rested finally on her. "I like this one."

"I like its hows," she replied. "Eyes big love-crumbs."

"Your electric fur," he said softly, and watched the wreck of her composure, the flush of her cheeks, the slight loss of focus in her eyes. "So you did know it."

"I had to look it up," she whispered. "e.e. cummings doesn't come up often in risk management." She swallowed, and her voice was thick when she spoke. "How are we going to do this?"

"Now?" His eyes flicked to the walls.

"And tomorrow, and the next day, and then after that." She turned back to the painting. "What I wouldn't give to be that right now."

The portrait of the artist and his second wife was frank and explicit, and before Matthew could say it, she said it for him.

"Naked," she murmured.

She brushed against his back as she walked away, the wide fabric of her sleeve catching on his. It was enough to push the scent of her to him, and yet again it took every bit of control he had not to do something entirely rash. He followed her, slowly, and she let him catch up at the next painting.

"When do you get back from Berlin?"

"Friday morning," he said. "I'll go to Brussels and possibly Paris, depending on the IMF situation."

"Let me know how things are going." She looked at him again. "I'm curious about the German viewpoint on the Spain situation."

"I'm not sure distance is going to improve it."

"Neither am I. But I think we should discuss it." She extended her hand. "Have a safe trip, Matthew."

"Thank you. We'll talk." _The barest brush of fingers, the lightest grasp._

"Of course." She let her finger trace his palm as they let go, an invisible stroke no one else could see, and he let his thumb touch hers before he turned away.

* * *

><p>She was still buzzing from his touch when she opened her door into darkness, and her heart fell at the silence. No music, no scents of food, only the cold void that had been gone for so long. "Eddie, darling?" She threw down her bag and walked into the kitchen.<p>

**I'M SORRY.**

"Oh, Eddie." She wrapped her arms around her sister, who was huddled on the counter with a cup of tea. "I'm sorry." Eddie hugged her back for a moment, and then played with the sleeves of the dress, holding them out with a grin. "Yes, I know. He wanted them that way. Come help me change." She took her sister's hand and led her slowly into her dressing room, where she kicked off her shoes with a grimace and couldn't help the gasp of relief at being released from the leather corset. Eddie laid it reverently on a shelf, smoothing over the detail with a sad smile. "You should wear it, you know," Mary murmured. Eddie merely snorted and helped Mary slide out of the delicate silk, before folding her arms and staring expectantly at her sister.

And Mary, nearly naked in the half-light of her dressing room, the thought of him prickling her flesh, looked at her sister and told the truth she had not told even to herself.

"I love him," she said.

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Thank you again for all your support. I'm glad you're enjoying this. _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 14?**

Matthew had never wanted Mary more than this moment. The IMF analyst was droning on and on about the Greek disaster and he suddenly wanted to pass her notes the way he did in Brussels three months ago. Three months ago, when they didn't _know_, even though he felt as if he'd known his whole life. _She'd find this funnier than I do,_ he thought and that thought alone made him smile at a wildly inappropriate moment. He wondered idly if the fact that Matthew Crawley smiled at the idea of extracting Greece from the euro would cause a mess on any stock exchanges and wished again he could just have Mary sitting next to him, her mind extracting information as quickly as his own, her own eyes flicking to his in complete understanding.

* * *

><p>The good news was that it had happened on Rob's watch. The bad news was that a likely fine for those idiotic interest rate shenanigans was not what the company needed right now. They had not been named yet in any of the news coverage. The PR director told Mary and Alastair only that morning that no one had asked about it, which meant only that they had more time to come up with a response. Her inclination was to take the medicine and move on, but Alastair was more reluctant about admitting wrongdoing, no matter whose watch it happened on.<p>

"Unless they actually point the finger over here, there's no reason for us to jump up and down and point to ourselves. Be prepared to admit exactly what we did and nothing more," he'd said after the public relations director left. "I can't imagine what else an investigation might turn up, especially during that era."

She knew exactly what an investigation would turn up, and until Percy managed to get a little more information, she hoped to keep all the balls in the air. _Exhausted and it's only Wednesday, _she sighed to herself when Alastair finally strolled out. She missed Matthew in more ways than one.

A red message scrolled across her screen. **Call from Matthew Crawley.**

**I'll take it,** she typed back and the desk phone trilled softly. "Mary Crawley," she said.

"Do you know how lucky you are?" he asked.

She grinned. "I'm the luckiest woman on earth."

"Yes, you are, because you didn't have to sit through what I just heard about Spain bank mergers."

"About how there weren't enough mergers?"

There was a pause, and then a quiet laugh. "Too few mergers. Exactly. There needed to be more. There need to be more mergers."

"More mergers in Spain," she said slowly. "Or elsewhere, if there's a need for it."

"I think there is a need." They were silent for a moment, and then he sighed. "I really needed you here today. No one else understands why this proposed separation is so hard."

"For Greece."

"And for other entities."

She put her head down on her desk and listened to him breathe, _one, two, three_, before she spoke again. "So the Libor story is starting to break."

"I noticed. Amazing what some people will put in emails." She heard a door slam through the phone line. "I'm at the hotel. Give me a call later about Spain."

"I will. Thank you, Matthew."

"Thank you, Mary."

She waited until she heard the click on the line to replace the receiver, wishing she could climb through it and into his hotel room.

* * *

><p>There was deleted, really deleted, and never existed. Percy was good, but he didn't know if he was this good. The digital recording of the conference call (and the entire day in question) was definitely deleted, and really deleted, but it had existed, and the mirror files had not been completely destroyed, and there were little things that kept turning up on his search that made him think that even if he couldn't get actual voices, he would know the codes entered by each participant, and those codes would tell him who was on the call.<p>

_The call._ It had ruined lives, destroyed businesses and reputations, and still had the power to do great damage, and he could not let it go.

He knew one more thing than he'd known yesterday. There were five codes entered. It was possible more than one person could have been listening on a line, perhaps on speaker, but he could safely say five people were on that phone call that may or may not have led to the demise of Heidelmann-McIntyre. He knew Mary was on it, and he'd even managed to spot her code on what he was able to retrieve. Patrick's code was partially retrieved, but there were three he could not yet piece together.

He did have his suspicions though, if the board meeting following the FSA and SEC's announcements that they would be looking into Crawley Martin Thorpe's role in the spiraling destruction of Heidelmann-McIntyre was any indication, and it depressed him to no end to think of who might have had a role.

* * *

><p>"Greg?"<p>

"Yes?"

Mary stared at him. "You know about the executive operations analyst position?"

"Yes."

"Are you applying for it?"

"Do you think I should?" He did not look up.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"I don't know," he said. "To both questions." Greg finally looked up at her. "I know you don't want to be rid of me."

"No, I don't," she replied. "But I want you to do what makes you happy."

"You'll be the first to know," he said and smiled. "So are you excited about Paris this weekend?"

"Only if I've lost Freddie over there." Greg peered at the guard, who glared back. "I can't see enjoying cafes with him in a corner."

"You meeting someone?"

_Oh, God, if only, _she thought, and did not answer the question.

* * *

><p>The knock at his door made him think for a moment of dark hair, jeans, and an old Radiohead t-shirt, but it was Aurelie, as impeccably dressed as if it was morning and not an hour before midnight. "Your flight is set for next Wednesday night to New York," she said as soon as she entered. "I can change it to the night before so you don't have to go to that fundraiser Tuesday night."<p>

"Why wouldn't I want to go to it?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't want to spend any more time around this family than I could help."

He peered at the itinerary. "So just Brussels tomorrow and then home by Friday?"

"Yes." Aurelie picked up two folders. "Soltz wants to talk tomorrow morning about the security details."

"Only if he tells me I can get rid of mine," Matthew muttered. "No offense," he said to the man standing in the doorway, who neither responded, nor gave any indication he'd even heard. He accepted the folder she handed him. "Thank you, Aurelie. Good night."

"Good night," she replied just as his phone rang.

He waited until the door clicked shut before answering it. "Matthew Crawley."

"It's Mary."

He sank into a chair. "Hello."

"I do hope you weren't suggesting more than two banks ought to merge."

Matthew burst out laughing. "You prefer traditional mergers, then?"

"I think it gets messy." She giggled, and the sound made him happier than he thought possible. "I think the structure of the merger could be non-traditional, providing it's between only two banks."

"You were needed today," he said suddenly. "It's as if Germany wants this to be World War Three."

Her voice dropped. "François Hollande's going to be trouble for Merkel and she knows it."

"The socialists are going to win in France." Matthew propped his feet up and thought of her curled next to him, against him. "And then there's Spain."

"Spain," she repeated softly. "Are you going to the charity thing on Tuesday, by the way? I know it's the night before your holiday starts, but Granny Violet's asked after you."

"Has she? I like her. She reminds me of someone I know."

"Does she?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "Anyway, if you go, you'll get to meet her cousins and frankly, they're mad and delightful."

"The Strallans?"

"Clever. You remembered." There was a small sigh on the line, and then she continued. "They always join the family for this event and it's really quite a nice one. Sybil's even deigned to stop by a few times."

"The famous Sybil," he murmured. "Well, I'll be there." He fiddled with the book on the nightstand. "You're in Friday, right? We can discuss the Spain plan at some point?"

"Of course. I'm looking forward to it."

"So am I." He picked up the book. "Have you read the Conard book yet?"

"No. Should I?"

"I think so," he replied. "I'll give you my copy. Almost finished and I don't think I want to keep it."

"That wonderful?"

"Awful," he said. "What are you reading?"

"_What Money Can't Buy,_" she said. "I love it."

"Love," he said.

"Love," she replied. "I'll see you Friday. It'll just be us at the meeting."

"Good night, Mary."

"Good night, Matthew."

_Shower,_ he thought as he slowly stood up.

* * *

><p>"Absolutely not," Matthew said. "As long as you promise me I'm not causing people to be laid off."<p>

"They won't be. They're regular staff members. No one loses a job. I just want you to be sure. I don't think it's the worst idea in the world for the chairman to have a regular security detail."

"When I get back, we'll discuss when it feels appropriate. Thank you, Jason. Have you told Ms. Crawley yet?"

"She knows the jet wasn't sabotaged. I'm on my way to her office to discuss what she wants to do about her detail."

Matthew grinned, knowing full well what Mary would want to do, and after Jason rang off, he dashed off a quick email.

**You're free. Apparently the jet and the lightning were the only things after us. Let me know what you decide. I'll call later about the Spain plan.**

* * *

><p>"Darling, I'm home," Mary called out as she poked her head through the door and was promptly assaulted by two small creatures who squealed her name. She grinned as she knelt down and accepted banana-flavoured kisses. "Look how tall you are," she murmured. "Maida, are you taller than Harper now?"<p>

A fight ensued between the twin girls, with Harper refusing to consider that her sister could possibly be taller, and it could only be settled by Mary placing them back to back to determine that no, they were exactly the same.

"Girls, let Mary come in here." Jemma called out, and Mary was dragged by two sticky hands into the kitchen, where she was greeted by a whirlwind of kisses from Jemma and Nate, and another pair of tiny arms attaching themselves to her.

"Hello." Mary picked up Jack, who smiled as he nestled against her. "You can walk, Jack."

"Yesh," he told her, and as she kissed his golden head, an odd lurch of her heart surprised her, and Jemma laughed at the look on her face.

"Tick tock," she whispered naughtily. "Beautiful eyes could give you one of those."

"Stop." But it had shaken her slightly, the vividness of the image flashing inside her head, and she wished Matthew was standing next to her. _Dinner with Nate and Jemma, the children crawling all over Matthew, making him laugh, his eyes meeting hers... _

"Congratulations." Nate held out a glass of wine. "I hear Crawley Martin Thorpe is ready to take over the world again."

* * *

><p>Mary returned from the girls' bedroom, having read <span>Tacky the Penguin<span> twice, with special voices. "I can't believe how grown up the girls seem," she said softly as she flopped onto the long sofa next to Jemma.

"They're very grown up for you," Nate replied. "They're three for us." He yawned. "Sorry. On a schedule for the new book. I'm calling it a night." He kissed Jemma. "Good night, Mary."

"Thank you for a wonderful dinner," Mary said as she hugged him.

"Thank you for doing the good night story." Nate grinned at her. "I'm really tired of Tacky."

"He looks good," Mary remarked as the door shut. "New book?"

"Nearly finished," Jemma said. "He's ahead of deadline right now, and you know him."

"I can't wait to read it." She curled into a ball on the cushion. "So glad tomorrow's Friday. I might sleep right here."

"If you like." Jemma twisted Mary's ponytail idly around her hand. "So how did the week go?"

"A lot of messy bits," she said. "Libor stuff, which could bite us rather badly."

"On Rob's watch, though?"

"Of course it was." Mary rubbed her eyes. "Still doesn't mean we won't have to pay for it. At least we weren't the ringleaders."

"I don't think Rob was bright enough to come up with the scheme," Jemma murmured, which earned a laugh. "What else?"

"Percy's trying to work impossible magic, reverse time, and recreate the conference call." Her voice barely got above a whisper. "And he thinks he can figure out who was on it."

"Mary, that's wonderful."

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe not."

"Why not?" she asked, but Mary was already asleep.

* * *

><p>He nearly hung up, but on the fourth ring he heard a click. "Mary Crawley's phone," the voice told him.<p>

"Hello?"

"You've reached Mary Crawley's phone." The speaker was female. "May I help you with something?"

"Could I speak to Mary, please?"

"You're very polite." Whoever she was, she was clearly amused. "She's asleep on my sofa, and I can only imagine you know how hard it is to wake her up."

He was about to hang up when he heard a scuffle and a loud "Ow!" before Mary's slightly breathless voice came on. "Matthew."

"Was that your sister?"

"A friend. Jemma." She glared at Jemma, who looked entirely unperturbed as she wandered back into the kitchen.

"Does she..?"

"Yes," she said smoothly. "So you're back tomorrow?"

"Yes. We should discuss Spain then."

"Absolutely. Did you keep your security?"

"I can't very well dump them in Brussels, can I?" He laughed. "But I'll be dropping it once I return. You?"

"I've said goodbye to Freddie, Bert, and Scott until further notice. Jason says he'd still like us to fly with them. I guess we get the jet back next week." They were silent for a moment, and she sighed. "Does your sister?"

He had to think for a moment. "Yes," he said. "But not really. I'll explain tomorrow."

"So will I," she replied. "What time?"

* * *

><p>She knew his itinerary, knew he would be arriving by two in the afternoon, but she still felt as if she could sense when he stepped off the lift, so she was not surprised when Greg ushered him in and shut the door behind him.<p>

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he replied. He was still carrying his briefcase, and she smiled as she realized he'd not even stopped in his own office. He smiled at her smile, and it turned into grins, and then inexplicably into laughter as he sat down across from her. "Did you get to drive into work today?"

"Yes," she said. "And it was wonderful."

"I can't wait until tomorrow," he said. "Going to ride out to my sister's. What are you doing?"

"Paris," she said. "I think I need to be out of the city."

He knew precisely what she meant. "I thought the same thing."

"Matthew..."

His eyes changed colour as they flicked up to hers, bright blue to almost black as his pupils dilated, and she felt that heavy weight again inside, the need worse than it had ever been. She heard a breath shudder out of her as he leaned forward. "Mary, I.."

"Matthew, you're back!" Alastair's voice boomed across the room. "Are we as hated by the Germans as we were in Lisbon?"

Mary turned in her chair, seeking a quick glimpse of her face in the glass to ensure it wasn't bright red before smiling up at Alastair. "He informs me it's a bit like the war. Both wars," she added. "And Germany's still looking for a win."

"I'm not sure France will allow it." Alastair lowered himself into a chair. "We should discuss Libor before anything else. Matthew, I assume you know Crawley Martin Thorpe was a part of that interest rate manipulation?"

And as they discussed how much they could reasonably expect to pay in fines, Mary kept thinking back to the look in his eyes, the sense that something had changed again, and she desperately wanted to know what it was.

But as the hour ticked by, she knew they wouldn't get a moment alone before she left to catch the train to Paris, and when Greg slipped in to put her iPad into her bag and remind her that the car was waiting to take her to St. Pancras, she could not think of a reason why Matthew should walk her out.

"Have a lovely weekend," Alastair said. "Will you be reachable or should we go through Greg?"

"Greg first. Call me if it's an emergency, but email will go to Greg." She looked at Matthew and smiled. "Enjoy your freedom."

"I'll try," he said. "Oh, wait. You'll want this." He reached into his case and pulled out a book. "Here. Something to read on the train."

"Is that the Conard book?" Alastair frowned. "I've been wanting to read it. As annoying as they say it is?"

Mary noticed Matthew's grip tighten on the binding. "More, if that's possible. I promised my copy to Mary so she can see what all the fuss is about."

"And I don't want to give him any more money if I can help it," Mary said slowly as she took the book from Matthew. "Thank you, I think."

"At least get through the introduction," he replied. "And apologies in advance for the marginalia. I still scribble in all my books."

* * *

><p>The train picked up speed, and Mary tucked her feet under her as she picked up the book with a small sigh. She did not want to read it, but knew she should, if only to have better answers for Patrick when he began touting its brilliance at the next board meeting. The first page of the book was filled with exclamation points in the white space and she laughed. "Marginalia indeed," she whispered. <strong>SHOCKING<strong> he wrote next to a dig at Paul Krugman's logic. **REALLY? ALERT THE MEDIA** was his notation next to the paragraph on current economic debate being inherently partisan. **LOVE **was attached to an arrow, and she followed it into the text and gasped.

It pointed to the word **you**_._

_He can't mean... _She turned the page, and there it was again.

**MISS... you.**

She turned the pages, tears marking them as she found **THIS **attached to **"grows more intense over time," ** and she burst into a giggle when she found a circled phrase **"ideas having sex with one another." LOVE** appeared over and over. **MISS** nearly as often.

And as the train came to a stop some time later, and she picked up her bags and slipped out into the twilight of Paris, she clutched the most wonderful book she had ever read to her chest and thought of how it would be if he was here with her tonight, if he sat next to her in the taxi that sped through the streets into the sixth arrondissement, if he took their bags up the narrow stairs to her flat near St. Sulpice. He would throw open the windows, letting in the sounds of the square, and he would kiss her, again and again, before they would decide what to do about dinner.

And so she stood in the middle of her flat, the windows flung open, the noise of the Place St. Sulpice filling the room as she texted Matthew. **Your notes improved the book immensely**, she wrote. **They made me love it.**

It was only a minute before he replied.

**I'm glad. I hoped you'd love it the way I love it. **

The lump in her throat returned as she sent back **How could I not love it? **

It rang in her hand, and she swiped it, lifting it to her ear as she sat on the window seat. She could hear his breath catching, and she blinked back tears. "Did you need to fill me in on the Spain plan? We never talked about it."

"I hope to fill you in sometime soon," he murmured. "I don't think six months is the right way to go."

"Neither do I," she replied. "But we shouldn't rush into that decision. Let's discuss it when we're back in the city. Sunday night?"

"Sunday," he said. "Have a good weekend, Mary."

She did not move from the window for some time, watching Paris come to life on a May night when she had never felt so loved, and never felt so alone.

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Thanks again for all the love and support... couldn't do it without all of you, especially Eolivet and ARCurren. Two songs for this. "Glasgow" off The Space Between Us from Craig Armstrong.. and I was also listening to "Paradise" from Coldplay. I think you'll see why._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 15?**_  
><em>

Mary awoke drenched in sweat, her throat closing so quickly she thought she might choke.

She had not had that dream in months.

She looked at the clock. Even if Eddie was awake, she couldn't tell her about the dream. Sybil wouldn't be awake and she wouldn't subject Jemma to it. There was only one person who could soothe her now, and she could not call him. So she pushed back the duvet, stumbled into the kitchen and made a tisane of chamomile and valerian, her throat closing again at the sight of her mother's teacup, and the threads of the dream came back as the steam rose from the kettle.

_There was blood, so much blood, the car mangled against the old cedar that had seen generations of Crawleys born and laid to rest, and when Mary flung herself on the ground next to her sister, she believed she would be burying her next to their mother. Eddie was choking, and Mary does not remember how she knew to tilt her sister's head ever so gently to let the blood flow out as Mark barked at someone on his mobile to fucking send ambulances now or they would fucking suffer. _

_And Patrick just sat there, somehow flung clear of the car when it rolled and smashed into the tree, somehow entirely unhurt, and not even Mary's screams and fierce blows to his head seemed to shake his disturbing calm. _

_Days and nights blurred together, sleeping in a hospital chair next to her sister, waiting after two surgeries, watching Mark pace outside the room, not thinking about anything other than Eddie's pain, Eddie's cries, Eddie waking up to realize she was a year away from walking and God only knew how far away from talking._

_And Mark flinched when he saw the horrific slice across her face, held together by stitches and thin staples, and Eddie would not look his direction again, no matter how many times he begged at her bedside, no matter what he said, what he sent, how he pleaded for forgiveness._

_And Patrick did not ask for forgiveness, and no one knew why Eddie was even in the car with him, and Rob would not tell Mary why Patrick hadn't been arrested or charged or why nothing had changed except that now Mary was on the outside. _

_And Eddie would not speak. Mary watched her once-happy baby sister, who had gone wild after their mother's death, who had gotten herself kicked out of boarding school, out of art school, out of clubs and restaurants until meeting Mark, slowly become nothing more than an eating, breathing shell as she recovered in Mary's flat. Mary, desperate for anything that would bring her sister back, brought her canvas and paint, and it unlocked some sort of fury that she had never known existed in her sister, a fury who painted nightmares and kept the world away, even as the world wanted in. _

_In her own nightmares she could hear her screaming, the only voice her sister had, mangled sounds in her sleep, and Mary would rush in to calm her, and every time her sister's room would turn into the lawn at Downton, the bed was the car, and her sister was bleeding, choking to death again and again in front of her, the eyes locked on hers in mute agony and fear._

She snapped back to full consciousness as the kettle clicked off and she poured the water with a shiver, wrapped her hands around the cup and went to find the book, to see if it could calm her.

* * *

><p>The garden was dark, the sky above black enough to see stars, and so Matthew sprawled on that blanket at the bottom of the garden, near the old cottage where he had first brought Alice four months after the fire, where he lived while shunning Emmanuel social life to care for her during school holidays. It was unused now, Daniel having built his own best architectural advertisement on the property, a glass, wood, and steel masterpiece that Matthew couldn't help but like. Yet he still found himself coming down to the old cottage, remembering how they built a life after losing everything.<p>

That he had found someone who understood what that was like was extraordinary in itself, but to have found it in the form of Mary, to have found love in all of it... He gazed up at the stars, the smile almost painful on his face. He wondered what he would do next, where he would go, and how long after that would they need to wait, which he did not want to do.

He couldn't wait for Sunday.

* * *

><p>She finally slept, awakening with the sun creeping through the window, the book under her hand on the pillow. <em>No substitute,<em> she thought. She made a pot of tea and toasted the last of her evening baguette, allowing the butter to drip luxuriously over her fingers as she sat in her window to eat breakfast. The phone rang, not her cell, but the old phone in the apartment, the sound odd and unfamiliar. "_Allo? Qui est a l'appareil?"_

"_C'est moi," _Matthew said.

She gasped. "How did you get this number?"

"I banked on it being under your mother's name. It's listed, if you didn't know that."

"I didn't." She curled into the chair next to the phone and grinned. "Where are you?"

"My sister's study," he said quietly. "She and Daniel are downstairs trying to decide on paint colours for the nursery and I have been banned for suggesting gold and green."

"You did that on purpose."

"Yes, I did." He put his feet on the ottoman and leaned back. "Alastair called. We have a bit of a problem."

Her stomach dropped. "What is it?"

He heard it in her voice. "No, no. Not that. He didn't want me to call you. Said you'd worked too hard last week and needed the break, but you should know that the FT called media relations last night and started asking questions."

"The LIBOR emails."

"Yes."

She was quiet for a moment. "I can be back in the city in a few hours."

"Don't," he replied. "It doesn't fall under you, and there's no reason for you to change your plans. It's Alastair's problem, and mine, and..." He paused. "Mary, the emails they know about were to and from Rob. You know that technically the company wouldn't be implicated in the actual manipulation, but he may have facilitated some things that would mean..."

"He's got to go."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said brusquely. "It's no one's fault but his own." She sipped the last of her tea, her mind in a million places. "Are you on your mobile?"

"No, my sister's house phone. She's kept it because two of the senior fellows won't call mobile phones. They think they'll get cancer if they even call one."

"I miss you," she said quietly.

"I lo.."

"No," she interrupted. "Please.. Matthew, I want to see you when you.. "

"Christ," he whispered. "I can be there tonight. Mary..."

"Why would the chairman be in Paris? Especially with a scandal brewing?"

He groaned. "We cannot do this for six months. Not if this is what six days feels like. I don't want to..." He stopped himself. "I'm afraid of forgetting what you taste like."

The inarticulate, soft cry in his ear, so like sounds he had known from her, only made it worse, and it took several ragged breaths before he could speak again. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "Truly. I... you're right."

"You're right," she whispered. "We can't keep this up. And I don't know what to do, Matthew. I don't have an answer."

"We always have answers, don't we?" he said bitterly. "Matthew Crawley and Mary Crawley, the brilliant leaders of Crawley Martin Thorpe, always prepared for anything" He laughed. "Why couldn't I be an irresponsible bastard with no thought for anyone but myself?"

"Then you'd be Patrick," she said.

"How can you stand this?"

"I could stand this, Matthew. I think we both could stand six months of this if we didn't already know that anything can happen in six months." He could barely hear her and he pushed the phone even closer to his ear. "We both know the worst can happen. And now that I know what it means to be happy..."

"Oh, God. Mary..."

"Shhh..." she murmured. "Maybe we try to take it week to week. This week... we'll have all that mess to contend with and I'm not sure how Rob will take to being the sacrificial... mutton." It made him laugh and she breathed a sigh of relief. "And you're leaving on holiday, which won't make anything easy, but at least I won't have the temptation right in front of me. Where are you going, by the way?"

"It's not public knowledge," he replied, his voice wrecked. "New York. I just don't want anyone else to know."

"I won't tell a soul."

"I know you won't."

There was a clatter on the staircase and Alice poked her head into the room. "Matthew, if you don't come down and tell Daniel that a Womb Chair is beyond ridiculous in a nursery, I will disown you."

"It's funny!" Daniel yelled up the stairs. "Matthew, come save me, please. You're not banned."

"Give me a minute." He glared at Alice and looked meaningfully at the phone. She rolled her eyes and walked out. "Sorry," he said, and listened to her laugh. "What?"

"It is funny. Womb chair."

"You make me happy," he said softly. "So very happy."

There was an audible sniff and a little giggle. "Isn't that a song?"

"An oldie. And you do, and you have, and you will never do anything but make me happy."

"All right. Enough of that." She wiped her eyes. "Are you sure you don't need me to come back early?"

"I need you to stay there and.. think of me. Stuck between a pregnant sister and her architect husband, trying to convince both of them that the baby is not going to care if the chair is genuine midcentury modern or not."

"It's not how I'm going to think of you." Her voice thrummed through him, and he groaned softly. "What do I taste like?"

He paused, and she could hear the grin in his voice. "Like a liquor never brewed."

"Oh, God. Matthew..."

"And now that I've left you in a similar state to how you've left me..."

She laughed. "Goodbye, Matthew. And good luck."

"Goodbye, Mary." He replaced the receiver and looked up to see Alice staring at him, arms folded. "It's exactly what you think," he said softly. "Only probably worse, because I love her."

* * *

><p>Mary chose not to be present at the board meeting on Monday, so with the approval of Matthew and Alastair, she sat in her office, staring out at the city, waiting to find out what happened when her door burst open and she heard Greg yell.<p>

"It's all right," she found herself saying. "Greg, I'll buzz if I need you."

He nodded imperceptibly and shut the door, leaving Mary alone with Rob standing in the middle of the room, his face red and his fists clenched. "Drink?" she asked softly.

"You couldn't bother to be there?"

"I felt it was inappropriate. I don't think my vote would have mattered either way."

"They're not even public yet. You don't think we could have waited until the emails were public?" He stormed across the room and poured himself a double.

"It's the look of the thing that matters," she replied. She thought he would break the glass in his grip, but his shoulders slumped instead, and he took a long drink.

"Touché," he said, and sat down.

"Rob, what happened?" she asked.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"I wish you'd act like my father again. But we can't have everything, can we? What happened?"

"I'm stepping down from all duties effective five pm today, and will no longer enjoy any of the benefits of chairman emeritus of Crawley Martin Thorpe," he spat out. "And if the emails do come out, this move will make it perfectly clear I took the fall for it."

She laughed. "You took the fall because you did it."

He said nothing as he finished his drink, and Mary simply sat on the edge of her desk and watched him. _When did he change, _she wondered to herself. _When did he become this person, and not the father I thought I loved? _He stood up and put down the glass, and she noted he was shaking slightly. _Afraid of telling Charlotte? _The question popped into her mind and she bit her lip to keep from saying it.

"Good luck," he said. "I won't be there to help with Patrick anymore."

It hung in the air for a moment, the shock preventing her from answering right away. "When," she hissed, "have you ever helped with Patrick?"

And something flickered across his face, a sense of fear, of longing, of something he wanted to say, but then the door opened and they turned to see Matthew standing in the doorway.

"I'll leave you to it," Rob said softly. "Good luck, Matthew. I'll still see you both tomorrow at Hyde Park?"

"Of course," Mary replied, her voice shaky. The door closed and Mary turned back to the window, her face hot with anger and confusion. _What did he mean about Patrick?_ She leaned her forehead against the glass, willing her breath into submission as he came to stand beside her.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, still not trusting her voice. He stared out across the city before meeting her eyes in the reflection, and he mouthed words that no camera in that room would capture, and no one would be able to hear.

_I love you. _

_I love you,_ she replied silently before they moved away from the window and talked of such things that would be appropriate, even as their hearts ached.

* * *

><p>He was glad to be at an event that did not require a dinner jacket. This corner of Hyde Park was covered in fairy lights, the construction sites for the Games hidden behind vast swaths of green tarp, and he hoped he would not have to wander half the park looking for Mary. "I'll be on the left as you come in," she had whispered to him earlier that day as they left the direct reports meeting.<p>

She was there, talking to a couple, and she spotted him just as he picked up a drink from the tray. "Matthew!" she called out. "Come and meet Sybil."

"The famous Sybil Maier," he murmured as he shook her hand, noting the bright blue eyes were watching him intently, as if she was constructing her first question. "I missed my first chance to meet you last Remembrance Sunday."

"Can't fuck the elephants if you're covering the circus," she replied, and he nearly choked on his drink.

"Sybil, really," Mary sighed. "You could wait until you've known him for a few minutes."

"It's true," Matthew said. "Is that original?"

"God, no," Sybil said. "It's the Rosenthal rule. The former New York Times editor. Speaking of that, Mary, they made the offer."

"Are you going?"

"No. But it'll give me leverage to get a regular column." She snatched a drink from a passing tray. "Did you read what I wrote about the American right-wing war on women?"

"Of course I did, darling."

"Did you?" Her eyes landed on Matthew.

"No," he said.

"At least you're honest." She grinned at him. "Mary lies all the time about it."

"I do not. Do you want me to quote it? 'The trouble will come when these admirers of the free market system who seem determined to remove women's rights to access birth control and legal medical procedures will realize that they have significantly decreased the supply of women who are willing to sleep with men and risk pregnancy, and yet they have done nothing to control demand.' Quite brilliant, applying market economy language." She raised her glass to her sister.

Matthew laughed again. "Why isn't this a circus?"

"What?"

"He means why you've graced them with your presence." Felix smiled at Matthew. "I'm Felix. She's here because I'm here. Auctioning off a few sketches for the cause."

"Felix deals in art," Mary said.

"And I need to be up there when it starts. Matthew, very nice to meet you."

Matthew watched them walk away. "Fuck the elephants." He laughed again. "Does she know?"

"No," she replied. "Only Eddie knows."

He frowned. "I thought Jemma.."

"Jemma knows what I've done. Not what I feel."

"Alice knows everything. Well, not quite everything." He looked around at the crowd, a thousand or so people milling around displays, waiters flitting in and out carrying trays, and shrugged. "Shall we?"

* * *

><p>Mary was right. The twin Strallans were mad and delightful, shockingly sharp for a pair of eighty-five-year olds, and not as deaf as two people who spent most of their lives around race cars should be. Matthew tolerated being exclaimed over as "Cousin Matthew" over and over again, was suitably impressed by their winloss record on the Formula 1 circuit, managed to comment intelligently on torque, and grinned with relief when Violet came over to rescue him.

"Maud and Tony are very sweet, but dear God, they can wear on your soul," she said with a smile. "How have you been?"

"Very well, thank you. What about you?"

"Intrigued to discover you've permanently booted Rob out of the fold," she murmured. "It's about time." She took his arm. "Do tell me whatever you can about it."

* * *

><p>She could still hear the auction as she sat down, glad to be away from the crowd for a moment. It had been harder than she could have imagined the last two days, and she found herself almost glad Matthew was leaving tomorrow. The air was crisp and sweet for a May night, and she found herself tipping her head back and closing her eyes.<p>

"You missed Ben's triumph." Matthew's voice startled her, and she opened her eyes to find him seated next to her on the hard wooden bench. "He snagged two of the E.C sketches. I don't think he's been this excited since Arsenal went undefeated."

"Which ones?" she asked.

"What?"

"Which sketches?"

His brow knitted briefly before he answered. "I think one was called 'Knocking' or something like that. A monster and three children. The other was a sketch of the one he owns. 'Hood.'"

"Those are good," she said absently.

He looked at Mary, her face half-lit in the moonlight, and it hit him. "It's Eddie, isn't it? E.C.? Edith Crawley?"

She did not answer. He touched her hand, between them on the bench, and she pulled it away from him. "You're very clever," she said, and it was as if they were at that club again, six months ago, and the cold struck him like a slap.

"I'm... Mary, Sybil looked very proud when they sold, and I thought it must be because Felix represents E.C., but just now, when I told you... well, you asked which ones, and you looked so proud, and you wouldn't have any reason to be except... She's extraordinary, Mary. She's... what, twenty-four?"

"You can't say anything," she hissed. "Not to Ben, or to anyone. Do you understand me? Ever. This is not your secret, this is not yours to know or to share or..."

"Of course I won't," he murmured.

"Do you understand me?"

_Feral_ popped into his mind and he nodded.

"Do you?" She flung the words at him and it was his turn to flinch. "People have tried to collect Eddie her whole life. At school, wanting to be friends with the billionaire's daughter. They attached themselves to her at parties, on weekends, wanting what she has, what she is... all those idiots who got her sent down from Rosey, booted from her studio work... there was nothing I could say or do or pay to keep her in Courtauld. I even thought Mark..." She froze for a moment. "When she got engaged, I thought here was another bastard trying to own her. And of course, he wasn't, but it didn't matter because after the crash, Eddie wouldn't let anyone own her. Not even me." She shuddered, and he had to fight the urge to pull her into his arms. "So now I'm afraid everyone will try to collect her again, and I don't know what she'll do, how she'll react, if she can handle it. If I can handle it." Her eyes glittered. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," he said. "Mary, I'm sorry." He watched it leave her, the tension slip from her forehead and neck, and he let his hand rest next to hers on the bench again. This time, she was the one who touched him, her fingers twisting tightly into his, gripping, releasing, gripping again, tears falling free from her eyes. She let go suddenly, standing up as she looked around, and then abruptly walked toward a copse. Her head turned as she went behind a tree, not looking at him, but he knew precisely what she meant, and he waited _one two three four five six seven eight nine ten_ before not following her, walking a different path to the same tree, aware that there was no one in sight, no one to see as she wound herself into his arms, her face hot and wet against his neck.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and their bodies jerked at the shock of the kiss, a low cry from her throat matching his groan as he lifted her into his arms. Her nails scratched at his neck as his hips pushed gently against hers, into the tree, her body bending and opening to fit him, nestling as closely as they could without giving in to the rhythm they were both fighting as their lips met, slanted, nibbled, sucked, took everything they could from each other and gave back more. He kept his eyes open, watching her, watching the park, and he was the one who let go carefully as a shout from the party made them both jump.

"Damn it," he whispered. "Right here, in a park, with a thousand people fifty metres away. I could..." His head tucked into her shoulder and he laughed. "Help."

She put her feet back on the ground. "So could I." Her hands tangled in his hair, and they breathed together, pushing back the need that flared with every breath.

"How was Paris?"

"Beautiful. Anonymous. I can always get lost in it, you know." She touched his cheek, his lips, smiling up at him as he released her, and she let him take her hand again. "Nobody knows who I am, no one cares what I do. I can eat in a bistro, buy wine in the shop, wander a market, and it's just me. Only," and she looked down at their hands beginning that dance again, fingers and thumbs a pale substitute_. _"I didn't want to be alone."

"New York is like that for me," he said. "Perfect anonymity if I want it. And I do." He leaned down and kissed her gently. "We should get back, if only to ensure Ben hasn't decided to embezzle from the legal department in order to fund his habit."

"I mean it, Matthew."

"I know," he said, before she could finish. "I know you do. And I won't say anything."

She nodded, and put her hand to his cheek. "Be careful in New York. Be safe. I love you," she said.

"I love you." He kissed her palm, and let it go, and watched her walk away.

* * *

><p>"Oh, God. John. No, don't even think of it. We'll handle it. Our best to Simone and please take care of yourself." Mary shuddered as she clicked the off button.<p>

"What happened?" Alastair's face was grey with worry, and Mary's heart constricted at knowing what he was thinking.

"Rear-ended. Charlie's all right, some cuts from the glass and a broken wrist, which John says he thinks is 'neat.' They're keeping Simone overnight just to make sure the baby's fine, but he says they're not worried. He's worried, however. I told him to forget about the meeting." She glanced at Alastair, whose eyes had glazed over. "Oh, Alastair. I'm sorry."

He came back, a sad smile on his face. "It's all right, my dear. I'm glad they're all right, and he should be worried. Life's too short and too unpredictable. You and I both know that. So," and he rubbed his hands together. "If Howland can't go to this meeting, who can? Who's on the risk management team we trust?"

* * *

><p>"Hello?"<p>

"It's Mary."

He looked up at the clock on the wall. "What time is it?"

"In London? Two." She sounded odd. "John Howland's wife and son were in an accident."

"Oh, God. Are they.."

"They're fine. They'll be fine. He's staying in London though, so we've had to send someone else to the meeting. I hope it's all right."

"Of course." He sat back in his chair and propped up his feet. "How are you?"

"Tired," she said. "How's New York?"

"Wonderful. I've bought out the Whole Foods, gotten myself added to the roster of my old footy teams, and this is the first time I've answered the phone."

"I'm glad you did. Where is your place, by the way?"

"Warren. Between Church and West Broadway."

"Warren between Church and West Broadway," she repeated. "I lived on Franklin."

"I still can't believe we never met," he said.

"Maybe we did," she said. "Although I was never on the roster of any footy team."

"Part of my anonymous New York," he said softly. "They don't care about anything except that I can score goals with a minimum of yellow and red cards."

"Is it a red card or a yellow card for inappropriate use of hands?"

He laughed. "It could be either, depending on what the hands are doing." There was an odd sound, a murmuring, and then a familiar rattling sound he could not place.

"What's the weather like in New York?"

"A little chilly, I suppose." He could hear a cab come to a stop outside.

"Keep it," he heard her say, away from the phone. "You should look outside and see, Matthew. Good night."

"Good night," he said, just as he heard the cab door slam outside, and it echoed in his ear, through the phone.

And his heart thumped as he threw down the phone and stood up in the window, staring down at the street where a lone figure stood, dark hair ruffled by a breeze.

**TBC**


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thanks again for all your support and flails :D and especially to Eolivet, my tireless beta and champion. A short chapter. The soundtrack is "Miracle" from Craig Armstrong's As If To Nothing... but if you listen to "Karma Police" by Radiohead... I won't complain._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 16?**

He disappeared from the window and Mary tried to keep herself from running to the door she now knew was his. _Idiotic,_ her mind told her, and yet she had not been able to help herself. It buzzed just as she touched it, and she pushed it open, entering the foyer. _No going back,_ she thought, as she listened to the lift go up, stop, and come back down.

"They sent you for the meeting," he said as the lift doors slid open.

"Yes," she said quietly as she stepped in. "And the irony of me rushing over here while I'm supposed to be prepping for a presentation on current risk management practices has not escaped me."

"Is that why you brought your briefcase?" he murmured.

"I might still get some work done," she replied as she handed it to him. "Private lift?"

"All mine."

"Good," she said, and pulled her shirt over her head.

"You don't want a tour?" he asked.

"No." She tugged at the hem of his battered t-shirt.

"A shower? You smell like an airplane."

"I don't even know what that means." Her fingers tickled along his stomach as the lift doors opened.

She noted that her case ended up in the chair by the door, and her shirt somewhere close. _A fireplace_, she thought as she was slung over his shoulder with a laugh. _Mumford & Sons, a book, wine, what I interrupted_ as he walked her down a long hallway, exposed brick glowing, his hand stroking over the soft denim on her hip, biting at her leg through it. Her own hands found the skin of the small of his back, the dimples at the top, her nails lightly scratching at them, pushing at the fabric just as they entered a dark room and she was lowered carefully onto a bed, _cotton, down, soft_, as the lights came on, low and shadowy, illuminating his face and her breath caught at its expression.

"I hoped," he whispered. "If I told you no one knew where I was, I hoped that you would come."

Her hand came up to cradle his cheek, the depth of feeling too much for both of them in the moment, before he kissed her, before they kissed, slowly, languidly, until a grin began to creep across her face.

"What?" he whispered.

"I haven't come.. yet."

"Oh.." And it was his turn to grin as he wrecked the lace and silk that bound her breasts, his lips against that place between until his own shirt was torn over his head.

"I love you," she whispered as he dragged his cheek across her, hands unbuckling, unzipping, pushing, pulling, needing, the friction split between impossibly soft sheets and his warm skin, her own already glistening with need.

"I love you," he answered as her fingers set him free, her feet helping him shove his jeans out of the way, hers coming down along with them as he pushed her higher on the bed, his lips grazing her thigh and then she cried out as he tasted her, his own groan vibrating against her. Her hands gripped at pillows, at his hair, at the edge of the bed as he flicked and stroked, his tongue marking each part before drawing it in. It happened too fast, and he left his mouth open against her as her breath stopped and started without sound, and she could only sense him moving above her, her eyes half-closed as he sank into her, his own gasps splintered by the irregular beats against him deep inside her. She held his head against her neck as his hips ground against hers, an unexpectedly slow, sweet movement, her own already too weak to move. _This, _she thought fiercely, as she tipped her head back, _all of it, everything, him, _and she heard his voice against her, so soft at first that she had to strain to hear him murmuring her name, his hands stretching down to hold her against him as he pushed harder and faster, until he suddenly pulled his head up and kissed her, hard, as she felt him break around her, inside her, throughout her, down every nerve and vein, and she felt his fingers reach between them and touch her yet again, and his name on her lips shattered the air.

* * *

><p>"This," he said softly. "I want this. Every night, every morning, every place."<p>

She put down the briefing book. "Me working while you slack off?"

He leaned down and nipped at the back of her thigh. "You working in my bed. Naked. And I'm on holiday. I'm not slacking off."

She hissed as his lips traveled north. "No, you're not." She took a sip of wine and put down her glass. "Two more pages."

His body covered hers and he glanced over her shoulder. "Exposure risk?"

"We're asking the New York office to assess beyond the obvious what we've been exposed to that could come back to bite us politically." She turned the page, making a few notes in the margin before putting it on the nightstand and rolling underneath him. "And tomorrow morning, I'll sit at a long table and not mention the biggest risk of all."

"Are you sorry?"

"No," she said, and pulled him against her. "I want this. You."

He sighed against her collarbone. "Where are you staying?"

"Mandarin. I took a taxi. Cash." Her fingers twisted into his, and he kissed them gently. "I shouldn't stay here tonight."

"How long will you be here?"

"Flight's late Sunday night. Meeting tomorrow, dinner tomorrow night, and then I have late Friday night, all of Saturday and most of Sunday."

"Did you bring Greg?"

"No, I left him at home." He lifted his head to look at her. "Something Rob said about Patrick. I wanted someone there to just keep an eye out for activity, and Greg is rather good at spying without anyone noticing."

"So is Aurelie," he murmured and kissed her again. "What did Rob say?"

"That he wouldn't be there to help with Patrick," she said slowly. "And since he never helped with Patrick, I'm not really sure what he meant by that."

He could not answer, and she told him without words that she did not want him to, and so they were quiet, his hands finding new places on her skin. The underside of her left breast, the sharpish point of her hipbone, the ripple of vertebrae, traced first by his fingers and then his tongue. "I want this," he said again, the words humming against her. "Us."

"Us," she whispered, eyes closing.

* * *

><p>Matthew awakened her at two, soft lips against her forehead. He smiled as she told him she'd take that shower now, and he joined her, writing notes in the steam on the glass, making her laugh at his suggestions for filthy metaphors at the meeting. "Tonight," he said. "I have a football double-header, but I'll be finished by nine. Meet me at ten?"<p>

"Here?"

He shook his head. "I'd like to take you out, since I have no intention of letting you leave this apartment again once I get you back here tomorrow night."

She dropped the towel and walked away from him. "Maybe I'll get a better offer."

"Maybe you will," he replied with a grin. "Do you want to know where or not?"

She picked up her phone, unlocked it, and handed it to him. "Write it down. I might show up."

He hailed a taxi, kissed her before she slid in and told him to call when she got back to her room. "I put my landline in your notes."

"Paranoid," she replied, and kissed him again.

He watched it drive away, and trudged back up to bed, which smelled of her, of them, and he told her he loved her again when she called, before falling asleep on her pillow.

And Mary read the name of the bar, the street address, and "_kisses are a better fate than wisdom_" as she curled up in the wide, sterile bed that reminded her only of being alone.

* * *

><p>"It's amazing how much one can get accomplished when one's boss is out of town," Greg drawled as he sank into a chair.<p>

Aurelie did not look up. "And you're getting all that accomplished by sitting here?"

"Accomplish-_ED_. I've finished." He leaned forward and placed a tall glass on her desk. "And I brought you limeade, so you must take a break."

"Limeade."

"It's like lemonade, only.."

"No, no, I get that." She grinned at the sight, perfect ice cubes, perfect lime slices, perfect blackberries floating in it. "What brought this on?"

"Odd job," he said, and he glanced meaningfully at the door. She nodded and he stood up and closed it.

"So Mary asked me to keep an eye on something. Someone, actually. Patrick, now that Rob's gone."

"What are you looking for?"

"Who he talks to, mostly. She wasn't more specific than that." He twirled his pen around his fingers. "He's up to something. Don't say it.. He's never not up to something, but.."

"Now he's alone, and far more dangerous." She took a sip of the limeade and raised the glass to him in approval. "I'll help you. God only knows I don't have enough to do."

He looked stricken. "I don't mean for you... not if you're busy, Aurelie."

She stopped him with a laugh. "Darling, I'm serious. I don't have enough to do. He's delegated everything while he's in New.." She put her head down. "On holiday."

"No one's supposed to know?"

"No one. Don't tell her. He's very funny about his holidays. He likes to be left alone."

"Lips sealed. She's the same way. It won't matter. She's already checked out of her hotel. I got an email that mentioned a friend of hers in the Hamptons."

Aurelie's eyebrows shot up. "Well, he won't run into her there. He hates the Hamptons."

"I thought she did as well, but..." He shrugged. "She's been odd recently."

She looked at him for a long moment. "Do you think anything happened between them? In Barcelona?"

"No," he said. "She's not that stupid."

* * *

><p>The taxi dropped her at the corner of Sullivan and Houston, and Mary found the tiny bar halfway up the block, the metal sign heralding <strong>"the room"<strong> nearly invisible. Velvet curtains blocked the entrance and when she stepped inside, it was almost impossible to believe something could be darker than the street, but it was, and she strained to adjust to the candlelit interior. It was crowded, but not overly so, and she scanned the faces near the bar. A narrow doorway led to more candles and darkness, and it was there she found him, in khakis and a t-shirt, alone on the low couch by the windows.

"Hi," he said, barely audible above the music.

"Hi yourself," she answered, and leaned down to kiss him. "Did you win?"

"Yes," he said, and took her case from her, his eyebrows flicking up at the sight of her luggage. "If we hadn't, I'd still be on the sidelines getting yelled at by Scrappy."

"Scrappy?" she asked as she sat down.

"Goalie, triathlete, and all-around inspirational nightmare," he replied. "You don't really have the option of losing when you play with her. What do you want to drink?"

They argued over the list, finally giving into the idea of letting the bartender choose one for them, and as he poured the wine, Mary found herself smiling helplessly.

"What?" Matthew asked. "That good a day at work? How did the presentation go?"

The smile got even bigger as she put her head on his shoulder. "Perfectly well. Dinner was nice and boring. And now I'm in a lovely dark bar with a glass of wine and you."

"Us," he said softly against her hair. She propped up her feet on the low table and watched as their hands began to twine together, habit and discovery in every stroke.

"I see why you like this," she murmured against his ear after several minutes. "Nobody ever plays this much Radiohead in a bar."

They talked little, and drank even less, savouring the simple sensation of being together without a soul around who knew them, pretending for a while that what they did mattered only to themselves. The bottle wasn't yet empty when he stood up and picked up her bag. "Home?" he asked.

"I wish," she replied as she stood up. "But we can pretend, at least for tonight."

He was about to answer her when a piece of paper flew at his face. "CRAWLEY!" the perpetrator yelled, and suddenly they were surrounded by five half-sweaty creatures who threw themselves down on the couches and started calling out their drink orders.

"What are you lot doing here?" Matthew sounded neither displeased, nor cheerful, only slightly confused. "I thought you were going to Shade?"

"Full of wankers. Fucking summer school." He had an accent that put him squarely in the center of London. "I'm Daz. Sorry about this. She can't be bothered to go anywhere new."

"Shut up," the blonde said companionably. "This was your idea."

"Two minutes," Matthew suddenly whispered in her ear. "Give me two minutes to get us out." She nodded briefly and smiled.

"Who are they?" she asked.

"Football team. Some of them." He grinned at the group. "Guys, we're leaving. There's some left in the bottle if you want it. I need to put her in a cab."

"Right. Come back and drink with us, then?" The smallest of the group lifted the bottle.

"Scraps, you wore me out. Sunday night, I promise." His hand touched the small of Mary's back. "Come on," he whispered.

She was silent once they got outside, and she pointedly ignored his hand as she folded her arms around herself.

"Mary," he began, but she cut him off.

"What if they say something?"

"What would they say?"

"They saw us together."

"Mary, I doubt they know who you are."

She started laughing. "It only takes one."

"Mary, not everyone is after you."

He regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth, but could not take them back before they struck, and he watched her stop and flinch. "I'm sorry," he said. "Mary, I'm sorry. That was unnecessary."

"And untrue." Her voice was like glass. "Odd, isn't it, Matthew? My own father is after me. Family is trying to ruin my life. I'd say I'd earned the right to be a little paranoid."

"Oh, God. Mary, I'm sorry."

"It's perfectly all right." She put up her hand as a yellow taxi pulled up to the corner. "Perhaps that was a reminder that this is insane and wrong."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know." She took her bag from him, avoiding his stricken gaze as she tossed it into the back seat. "Enjoy your holiday, Matthew."

And she was gone.

He stared after it, willing it to turn around, to come back so he could beg her forgiveness over and over until she smiled again. But he watched it turn north, and his heart sank. _Insane and wrong, _he thought. He wished he'd ridden up here, if only so he could tear home, pushing the vintage engine to abnormal speeds, anything to calm his thudding pulse. Fear raked through him, loss and anger together, and he pulled out his phone, thinking he could call or text, but in the next moment it was back in his pocket and he was hailing his own taxi, running across the street to jump into it. _Home,_ he thought. He would be perfectly sober in a few hours and he could ride out of town. "Warren between Church and West Broadway," he told the driver.

"Which way you want me to go?"

"I don't care," he replied.

* * *

><p>Matthew wished he had cared, as he paid the driver after an interminable jam near the Holland Tunnel. It was nearly one, and he was worried about Mary. <em>I can call her from the landline, <em>he kept telling himself, even as he was thoroughly convinced she would not answer and he would not blame her. He twisted his keys in his hand as he stepped out, head down, and began imagining life without her._ Board meetings, the morning brief with Alastair.. Perhaps I could travel more, perhaps I could find ways to just not be there unless... And then of course, December, and I can leave, best to wait until then.. _But he ached at this thought, of her dark eyes on his, always cold and careful, after having known them to look upon him with love.

"I thought you were ignoring me." Her voice broke the street's stillness. She was in his doorway, her bags at her feet. "And I wouldn't blame you."

He could say nothing, his throat swelling in relief as he opened the door and picked up her cases as she passed in front of him. She was silent as well, and he noted the tearstains on her face as the lift rose, wondering if the marks were still on his own face. Only when the doors slid open and he put her things down next to a chair did she speak, and it came out as half-laugh, half-sob. "Of course. It's a Barcelona chair." She sank into it, head in hands.

"Mary.." He knelt in front of her, pushing her hair out of the way as he kissed her forehead. "I know."

"What's worse?" she asked. "Not being together, or being found out?"

"I don't know," he said. "I know the former is horrible, and I don't want to test the latter."

"I feel so weak." Her head rested on his shoulder.

"You're not weak," he muttered. "Don't ever say that."

"What's this if not weakness?"

He kissed her, and before he could speak, she stopped his mouth with kisses. "My Achilles," she whispered against his lips, and this time she led him down the hallway and put him down on his own bed. "Tomorrow," she whispered against his dark blond hair as he tried to speak, his hands slipping across her skin. "Tell me tomorrow."

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Sorry for the wait - life and work gets in the way sometimes. Thanks as always to Eolivet for beta and support. The soundtrack is from Craig Armstrong's The Space Between Us and the track is "Glasgow." (no relation to his work on the soundtrack for Love Actually). _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 17?**

_Weak._

She could not sleep, the iPad on the bedside telling her it was three am. She was still on London time in her head, only she knew it wasn't London time that was bothering her. She looked down at Matthew, asleep and relaxed, his mouth slightly open, his face almost boyish in sleep. The hair waved and fell over his forehead and she kept herself from pushing it back, from touching him, from stopping this moment in which she could luxuriate in just looking. Her eyes raked over him, noting the longish lashes, unfair on any man, the way his jawline sharpened his face, kept his cheeks and almost delicate chin from looking too soft. There was a bruise on his chest, the line in the middle telling her it was probably from the football. A small scar along the line of his shoulder looked like a surgical one, and the idea of him in pain made her wince. She let her eyes trail across his belly, remembering the feel of those sparse curls under her fingers, the jut of his hip in her hand, the taste of him. He was dreaming, his eyes flickering under the lids and she wondered what he might be seeing or feeling as she watched his body twitch. As tempting as waking him was, she wanted him to sleep, because she did not want to share her own unsettling thoughts and dreams. To do so would be to shatter this mood that swelled over her every time she looked at him. It wasn't just love, although she knew now she had never loved like this, that nothing she had ever known before had been one-tenth the truth of what she felt for Matthew, and it terrified her. No, it was that he made her _feel_ loved, safe, made it seem as if this life could be possible, a life she had thought would never be hers. She had known love, of course, familial love, her life until the age of seventeen a golden one full of light and joy. But on that bitterly cold day when she stood by the broken icy ground of the Downton churchyard and watched the man flip the switch that lowered her mother's ravaged body into the black mud, she felt love and light disappear, replaced by a numbing chill. _Maman shouldn't be here_, she had screamed at her father only the night before. _ She should be in France, in Lourmarin. _ And her father had bellowed back at her, as he had never done before, his raised voice a perfect mystery to her. His iciness that morning had terrified her at breakfast, the silence deafening in the cavernous old dining room. Rob would not look at her, not at the church, not when he spoke, not even at the gravesite. Her sisters, sensing this unknown tension, clung to her. She thought nothing of that divide at that moment, only a childish and vengeful pleasure that they chose her, which turned into cold, sick fury as she watched her father look to Charlotte for support, saw him take the hand she offered. Charlotte, who had insinuated herself into all their lives for years, who had nothing to do with the firm other than to live off its profits.

Charlotte, who would be her stepmother in barely a year.

She had crept back to the grave that night carrying an old trench of her mother's and it was only then that she was able to cry as she had wished, lying on top of the grave, the coat underneath her still smelling of Maman, and it was not her father who found her asleep and shivering in the grey dawn light, but Alastair, who brought her back to Crawley House, leaving the coat at her insistence because Maman didn't like the cold.

Mary shivered at the memory, her dark eyes focused again on Matthew's sleeping face. It was no good. She would not sleep.

* * *

><p>She was not in his bed when his eyes flicked open, and for a moment he feared she had left, but her clothes were scattered on the floor, and he could hear her walking in the kitchen. His jeans were where she had tossed them only a few hours before, and he chuckled at the memory of her above him as he buttoned them and walked down the hallway to find her sipping distractedly at a mug of something hot. "There's my t-shirt," he said.<p>

Mary's eyes darted toward him. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. I'm still off." He leaned against the counter next to her and let his fingers drift across her arm. "Couldn't sleep?"

Her head shook slowly and she bit at the edge of the cup. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"I'm the one who's sorry. Mary..." She wrapped her arm around him and leaned against his shoulder, a soft "shh" against his bare skin as her lips traced the scar.

"How did you get this?"

"Torn rotator cuff," he said. "I scored a brilliant goal and was tackled by my own teammates."

She laughed, the heat of her breath rushing across his skin. "You're telling me it was friendly fire?"

"Yes." He could feel her relaxing into him, the tension ebbing as her cheek rubbed against the mark. "You know I understand, don't you?"

"Of course you do." Her hand brushed against the small of his back and nestled there as she tucked herself a little closer to him. "You always do."

"If I don't, Mary..."

"Shh..."

"No, I mean it. If I ever seem as if I don't understand, you need to call me on it. Remind me of this moment." His cheek fell against hers and his voice dropped. "Make me remember you in my kitchen, in my shirt. Don't let me forget.."

"Shh," she whispered again against his neck. "Only if you do the same."

He held her, strands of her dark hair tangling in one hand as the other mirrored hers on his back and he breathed only to feel her, to stamp every sensation into his memory. They did not move for some minutes, the room perfectly silent until the sound of a BeeGees song coming from her iPhone startled them both.

"You're joking with that."

"A little," she said. "Percy made that his ringtone." She reluctantly extracted herself from his arms and fetched the phone. "This had better matter," she said. Matthew watched her face in the light from the street as she first smiled, then frowned, her shoulders bowing slightly as she scratched at an invisible mark on the glass. "Of course," she said softly. "How is she?"

He raided the fridge and popped open a can of Sixpoint, to which she shook her head, and so he sipped it alone, deliberately not listening as she spoke in a soft monotone for several minutes before ending the call. "What's he doing so early?"

"Not that early." Mary tossed the phone onto the chair. "He's with Eddie this morning and wanted to use my computer for something."

"He's with Eddie?"

She didn't answer.

"Mary?"

Her head rose suddenly, and her eyes were hard. "We've never talked about the conference call, have we?"

"Heidelmann-McIntyre?"

She nodded.

"No."

* * *

><p>"You win," Greg said ruefully as he surveyed the damage on his desk. "There is no reason to go out for brunch ever again."<p>

"You're welcome," she said as she sipped at her café crème. "And thank you for suggesting it."

"Anything to improve this," he said with a grin. "I hate scheduling."

Aurelie shrugged and flipped open her iPad. "There's nothing to be done about it. Other than making it as pleasant as possible." She made a face. "Ugh. Olympics."

"They won't have a moment to themselves once they hit July." He groaned at one of his notes. "Did you get an invite to that Romney fundraiser?"

"Yes," she said. "He won't touch politics."

"Neither will she. Patrick and Rob on the other hand..." He broke off at a beep from his desktop. "Hang on." He peered at the screen carefully.

"What?"

"She's not back yet. She's still in New York." He clicked several times. "But she just swiped in downstairs."

She whipped behind him to stare at the screen. "She wouldn't have flown back overnight?"

He pulled up a mosaic of cameras. "Not without me knowing about it." Shots of the garage, the entrance, the halls, the elevator flashed in front of them, empty save for a lone figure.

"Is that..."

"Shit," Greg whispered. "Yes."

* * *

><p>Charlotte was saying something. She had been saying something for some time, hours it seemed, and Rob had stopped listening at some point that morning and had never quite gotten back into the stream. Something to do with the Games and fundraisers, and he had nodded at what felt like the right moments, but he had no idea what had actually been said.<p>

_When did it all go wrong?_

"She couldn't wait to do it, you know. Rob?"

"Yes?"

"You know she was just waiting for her moment to get back at you."

He was thoroughly confused. "Who are you talking about?"

Charlotte was shuffling pictures around on the library mantelpiece. "Mary, of course." When he said nothing, she laughed. "Oh, Rob, you can't think that she wasn't a part of this."

"Put it back," he said sharply.

"What?"

"Put the picture back where it was."

Charlotte looked at the photograph in her hand and slowly replaced it. "I don't know why you're so upset about this. It's not as if they're taking money away from you. Nothing changes." She stalked toward the door. "And I hope you're in a better mood at dinner tonight."

He said nothing, his eyes still on the mantelpiece until, almost of their own accord, his fingers pulled open the side drawer on his desk and he closed his eyes briefly before looking down at the photo, at the near-twin of the picture Charlotte had tried to move, the picture of his three daughters at Lourmarin, laughing, their arms around Céline, and this time the reflection in the wide, old window of the farmhouse was of himself, snapping the picture he now held in his hand.

* * *

><p><strong>All work and no play<strong>...

Percy grinned at Eddie's message. "Yes, darling, but this can't be done at work." He went back to his own screen. "Keep painting. I'm getting high off the scents in here."

Eddie frowned at him and started to type again, only to be interrupted by a high-pitched wail from the kitchen. "Damn it, Eddie, there's no ice cream."

**You'll get fat.**

Sybil flung a cherry stem at her sister and flopped down on the divan. "I only ever eat it here. And I thought you were a militant feminist, not bound by the misogynistic social rules that make women feel guilty about eating."

**You'll still get fat.** Eddie neatly avoided the next two stems and pits and kept drinking her tea.

"Honestly," Sybil sighed. "I can't win."

"You're not fat."

"I know that." She leaned off the divan and looked over his shoulder. "What are you working on?"

"Private project."

"La-di-da." Sybil murmured. "How private?"

"I wouldn't tell a journalist about it." He was typing at an alarming rate.

"It's not like I can read any of that... code?"

"Yes, moron. Code. Trying to write a program to extract something. I don't think it's going to work, though. At least on this last one."

**Percy wants to prove Mary's innocence.**

Percy groaned. "Eddie, when I say something's secret, you do know what that means, right?"

The rare sound of Eddie's laugh filled the studio. **She's family. **

"The conference call?" Sybil sat up.

"Yes," Percy said with a glare at Eddie. "I... Sybil, I can't tell you about it."

"Vault," Sybil said quietly. "She's my sister. Vault. Off the record. Secret."

Percy took a deep breath. "Do you promise?"

"Yes."

"Really promise?"

Sybil groaned dramatically "We're not teenagers, Percy. Come on."

"Do it."

She raised her hand. "I swear on the grave of Lavinia Swire that if I do tell, I'm a snitch and a liar. What do you know?"

"What do you know?"

"Nothing other than what was in the news at the time. Potential evidence destroyed. Did you find the call?"

"Part of it," Percy said quietly. "As of five minutes ago, I now know four of the five who were on that call."

"Mary and Patrick, of course." Sybil sat forward. "Who else?"

"Rafe Mortimer, the old group finance director."

"Prick," Sybil murmured. "And?"

"Alix Westfield."

**Who?**

"No," Sybil breathed. "The missing trader?"

"Yes," Percy said grimly.

**Who is Alix?**

"Alix," Sybil replied slowly. "A trader from Heidelmann-McIntyre who may be responsible for some of the trades that started the panic. We don't know, of course, because records were destroyed beyond that call, and no one has seen her in three years. Percy..."

"Secret," he said.

"Percy, Alix's disappearance is part of an active criminal investigation. You can't sit on it."

"I can't prove it absolutely yet, either. It's only codes, and until I'm certain... Sybil, there's no proof she was on it, only that someone used the code she was given to dial in. Mary's never mentioned her, and when I talked to her this morning, I didn't know about Alix. I have to talk to Mary first."

Sybil's jaw flexed. "What happens if she says no?"

Percy looked up at Eddie's painting, at the slowly emerging multi-headed creature looming over the still-rough outlines of three small girls. "She can't."

* * *

><p>"Who am I right now?" Matthew's voice was tight. "When you tell me this, who are you telling?"<p>

"All of you," Mary said. "I can't let this be between us. You have to know."

He sank into the sofa, his hand shaking. "Mary, if there's..."

"I know, Matthew."

"Any criminal wrongdoing, anything at all..."

"I know."

He said nothing for a minute, his eyes flicking to hers as his hands clenched. "Go ahead," he finally said.

"When I say I don't know who was on the call, beyond Patrick and Rafe, I mean it. I don't. I know Rob was supposed to be on it, but if he was, he never said a word. Whoever the fifth party was never spoke. And I wasn't on the entire time. I put it on hold for eleven minutes while I answered another call. So I don't know what was said in that eleven minutes. I came back on, they said everything was settled and no one should worry, it was all above board, only it wasn't, and the trades crashed everything. And when the FSA and SEC came sniffing around asking about that conference call, it was deleted somehow, even though CMT's own rules said it shouldn't have been. You know what happens then. Everyone clams up, because you never give the FSA or the SEC any more information than you have to. No evidence, no case, no problem except Rafe and Patrick.." She grimaced. "Rob sided with them. And his choice made it look as if I'd been the one to say something on that call, to encourage something that wasn't above board."

"So Percy think's he's found the call?"

"He thinks he's found a way to figure out who was on it." She watched Matthew carefully. "He's only confirmed what I knew. Rafe and Patrick. But he does know five codes were used."

"Who else knows he's doing this?"

"No one," she said softly. "And unless he finds something significant, there's no reason for anyone else to know."

"You're right," he said. "So that's all?"

"Yes."

He was only a few feet away, but it felt like that chasm between their terraces in Barcelona, impossible to cross, and only an invitation would allow it to be bridged.

* * *

><p>"Shit, shit, shit," Greg muttered. "This isn't happening."<p>

"It can't be a mix-up? That the number just read wrong or something?" Aurelie watched as Patrick strolled down the long hallway, his ID swipes coming up as Mary Crawley every single time. "And how did you get access to the cameras and ID swipes?"

"I asked. Only works internally, but that way she doesn't have to bother to text me when she's in the building. And no, it can't be a mix-up. It's her number, that's why it alerts me, but right now it's coming up as his."

"Why would he risk it on a day she's not even in the country?"

"He doesn't know. Officially, she was returning early this morning, only I never changed it in the weekend note." Greg's heart was hammering in his chest. "How did he get access to that, and when?"

"Who else is here this morning?"

"I don't know," he replied.

"I do," she said. "Come on."

* * *

><p>Matthew put the can into the recycling bin, opened the fridge again and stared into it. "In or out for breakfast?"<p>

"What?"

"Stay in or go out for breakfast?"

"It's four o'clock."

"Not now." He shut it. "In a few hours."

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"About what?"

"The call." She hugged her knees to her chest.

"What do you want me to say? That I believe you?" She was silent. "Mary, what do you think?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer. Do you think I believe you?"

"I hope you believe me."

In the darkness his eyes glowed. "Should I believe you?"

"Yes." It was a whisper, barely audible even in the silent apartment.

"Well, then," he said. "In or out?"

"In," she said. "In for breakfast. Matthew, don't just say that.. "

"Shh," he said as he walked back to her. "Of course I believe you. Don't doubt me, Mary. I don't and I won't ever doubt you."

She nodded and took his hand, allowing him to pull her close, reveling in the scent of his neck before she started to cry. He didn't ask, and only held her tighter as she wept quietly, and she knew he understood. "In," she said again. "The whole weekend. I don't want to leave this place until I have to, Matthew."

* * *

><p>"I hope everything's all right," Patrick said quietly, but it still startled the tall man thumbing through a thick report. "I heard about the accident."<p>

"Yes, thank you." John Howland put down the notebook and warily glanced up. "My wife and son are home and all's well, other than the hassle of replacing the car."

"That's good to hear." Patrick settled into a chair opposite John's desk and folded his hands. "You know that's how Alastair lost his wife and only child, don't you?"

"No, I didn't."

"Terribly sad. They were killed coming back from holiday. He'd gone ahead and they were several cars behind him. Nothing could be done, they died instantly."

John's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't like Patrick, didn't know anyone who did, frankly, and could not understand why he was kept around. "I feel very lucky."

"You should," Patrick murmured. "You've had a lucky escape. Several, as a matter of fact, when it comes to LIBOR." He watched John's face carefully, marveling at how even the darkest of skin could seem to grow pale when threatened.

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing in particular," Patrick replied. _Bingo, _he thought. "It just seems quite sad to lose someone who's done so much for this firm simply because of a scandal that really isn't about what we do now, is it? Be a shame if anyone else went down for it?"

John swallowed. "A damn shame," he said slowly.

Patrick leaned forward. "Have you noticed anything about Matthew and Mary?"

"What about them?"

Patrick smiled. "That's just it. Them."

**TBC**


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Thanks to you all for your lovely reviews and support and patience... and thanks to Eolivet for the beta and ARCurren for letting me kick this around. Soundtrack is "Weather Storm" from Craig Armstrong's The Space Between Us._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 18?**_  
><em>

It was better than he'd imagined, and more devastating than anything Matthew had ever known, and he tried to etch it into his memory. Could he draw upon it, he wondered, could he remember the indescribable scent of her hair as he awoke with his nose buried in it, her head tucked against his chest? Could he keep from forgetting the ripple of her body as he parted her legs with his hand, the whisper of his own name more arousing than any sound before it? Would the flashes of things, _heat, wet, mouth, fingertips, skin, tongue, heartbeat_ ever be anything, but a constant in his mind now that he had... He ducked his head against her neck as the water beat against them in the shower, and there was his name again as he realized with a grin through the ache in his throat that all the damned poets and writers were, in fact, exactly right about all of it. "I'll make coffee," he whispered.

He did, so skillfully that she half-thought of giving up tea for it. She dug eggs and milk and nutty Gruyere out of his fridge, sliced a tomato, and raised an eyebrow at the thick-cut streaky bacon. "Proper brunch," he said with a grin as the smoky richness filled the air, and it became a battle of wills as each kept snatching from the other's pans as they cooked, shoulder to shoulder. They ate standing up, off the same plate, the omelet large enough for two. "This," he managed between bites, "is amazing."

"I agree," she said softly, and he kissed away a fleck on her upper lip. She felt her heart lurch at the gentleness of him. "What shall we do today?"

* * *

><p>They did not speak until they were in Matthew's office, Aurelie locking the door behind them, her face like stone. "John Howland is here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "That's where Patrick is."<p>

"Why is he using Mary's code? There are security cameras, people would know he'd been here." Greg pulled out his phone. "She has to know."

"Don't. It's too early in New York, you'll wake her up."

"She needs to know."

"Can we find out what we keep first? Is it codes or cameras? What would someone check first to see if someone was in the building?"

"Aurelie..."

She groaned. "Greg, it matters. If we keep the codes and not the images for the long term, then there's no way down the line to prove it wasn't Mary Crawley in the building." She sat down at Matthew's desk. "Are you sure she wouldn't have given him the number for some reason?"

"What possible fucking reason could there be?"

"Don't snap."

"Then don't come up with irrational ideas, Aurelie." He sat down. "I wish I could make you understand what it's been like here. What it's been like for Mary, for..." He stopped. "Percy."

She looked up. "What?"

"Percy Martin." He was suddenly calm, but grim in a way she hadn't seen before. "You're on speaking terms with his assistant, aren't you?"

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"Not this week." He leaned over the computer. "Have Percy call me. Tell him it's about the conference call. He'll know what it means."

* * *

><p>The invitation was on thick paper the colour of ash, the dark red letters like gashes. "EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW" it screamed. "E.C.'s NEWEST WORK. SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY."<p>

"Yes, because I'm going to submit a frivolous one," Ben murmured as he tossed it onto his desk and leaned back in his chair to look at the place he'd already cleared for what he believed would be his next acquisition. He hoped it was the finished version of the sketch he'd purchased, of the three little girls and the indescribable creature stalking them, but he would be happy with anything. In full size, in the colours and lights that E.C chose to paint, it would be spectacular and chilling, just as "Hood" was. He looked over at it, hanging in the current place of honor, the flat, grey eyes of the girl causing the same uneasy thrill as they had the first time he'd seen it. _Who was E.C.? _He had tried to imagine the mind behind the work and failed. Male or female, old or young, he could come up with no satisfactory picture in his mind of what sort of person could do this, and he had found over the weeks of owning the painting, and the few days of owning the sketches, he no longer wanted to know, and he began to feel that no one ought to know. He was a scholar of art history, but in learning the stories behind the artists, he had felt nothing but disappointment. Bar fights, debt, insecurity, madness... when applied to what he saw in front of him, what he felt even as a child was simply magic, it dimmed the beauty of it. He preferred to believe that the art came from a place no historian could capture and no biographer could possibly understand, and as he stood in front of the huge canvas, the thrill was replaced by the secondary emotion he felt with only this painter, a feeling he had never been able to explain, and it was the reason he so desperately wanted this new work.

* * *

><p>"I don't care what you do," Rob said quietly. "But if you're going to buy it, we should at least put it in the contemporary collection at the Tate."<p>

"Why on earth would I put it anywhere but here?" Charlotte's fingers flipped the grey card over and over in her hands.

"Because people ought to be able to see art. That's the point of the museum." He bit back the temptation to add the word _idiot_ and hated himself in the next moment for thinking it. It was who she was, he reasoned. There was no fixing it, not without a cost he did not dare to imagine. "At least for a short while, Charlotte. No one else has been willing to loan their works. It looks good."

She nodded, and left the library without speaking, and he sighed as he went back to his book. _At least six million_ he thought.

* * *

><p>John Howland had stared down federal regulators, been in the room when Lehman Brothers was destroyed, and had been the most feared man on the Harvard defensive line. No one with such a resumé should be shaking as he was, and he put some of it down to the abject terror he'd felt seeing his wife and child in the hospital, but he could not deny that Patrick seeming to know his connection to the LIBOR scandal had unsettled him in a way he did not expect, and he felt the only thing to do was to call Matthew. What Patrick had implied, John could not believe, and he knew Matthew needed to know. Matthew did not answer, however, and if John had learned anything in his years in New York, it was that one did not ever leave anything in an email or in a voicemail message. "Call me, please. It's John," was all he said before hanging up.<p>

* * *

><p>Greg put the phone down. "He says he needs to be the one to tell her. We can't say anything."<p>

Aurelie's jaw clenched. "Greg, I can't keep something from him. It's not how we are."

"I know." He was silent as he paced in front of the window.

"What did he say?"

"Only that he wasn't surprised. Oh, he said they keep the codes and not the images long term, but he's going to head of security with a request to retain images for the foreseeable future." He rubbed his eyes. "What a mess."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"About what?"

"About earlier. Irrational thoughts." She reached for his hand and he squeezed it tightly. "Was it as bad as this?"

"Worse," he said, and kissed her hand. "And no apologies necessary. Just imagine a constant feeling like this. That's been the game."

"I can't," she said. "I can't imagine. So how... Greg, what if Percy doesn't tell her?"

"He will."

"How do you know?"

"Because no one else has always been on her side," he said slowly. "Until Matthew Crawley." He smiled suddenly. "Have you gotten your CV and application in yet?"

* * *

><p>"You," Mary said slowly, "need to stop."<p>

Matthew shrugged. "It's my house."

"It's my ankle." She pulled her foot back.

"I like it," he muttered as he took hold of it again and dragged his lips across it.

"It's not a steak." She looked up at the sky, at the deep blue beyond the roof deck's canopy. "You should check on the food."

He bit gently at her calf before wandering over to the grill. "Aren't you going to help?"

"I thought we decided I was responsible for dinner?"

"It doesn't mean you can't help."

"You don't look like you need any." He didn't, his beautiful hands easily flipping the basket with the vegetables, and she stretched out her hand to scratch at the back of his leg. "When did you learn how to cook?"

"Had to feed Alice." He meant it to sound light, but it did not, and her arms were suddenly around his chest, her face pressed into his back. There was no other way to respond, and he let her hold him and kiss his shoulder before she gently shoved him aside and took over the fish. This time they ate from separate plates, and sipped at icy lagers as they smiled at one another and said nothing that would break the spell. They could have stayed like that for hours as they curled up on the warm chaises, but the once-blue sky threatened them, and they quickly cleared the grill and table just as the first fat drops struck. "Weather," he said as they descended the stairs, "is chasing us."

"Apparently," she murmured, and this time it was his mouth against her back that stopped all talk, cloth pushed aside as his hands wrapped around her breasts, and they did not make it past the sofa, the rain slamming against the window, the rattle of thunder as loud as their cries.

"I'm glad I went for the mussels before lunch," she said lazily as she stared out at the rain. "This is ridiculous."

"I would have gone, you know," he replied. "You said you didn't want to leave this place."

"I miss Chelsea Market," she said. "And I thought I'd give you a chance to tidy up."

He nuzzled the hollow above her hip. "I'm not shaving," he said with a grin.

"I didn't mean that. I like this." She caressed his chin, letting her thumb rest on his lips. "But I don't think the board will approve of peach fuzz on a chairma... OW!"

_This,_ he thought as they tangled on the floor, her lithe body twisting away from his, her laugh echoing against the windows. "I love you," he muttered against her thigh. "Mary... I can't give this up, I can't..."

"What are you proposing?" she whispered, and the word hung in the air, their eyes locked as it seemed to repeat itself over and over in their heads. "Matthew," she whispered as he began to grin. "Don't make promises. Not yet."

He kissed her belly, his eyes not leaving hers. "I'm not the one who said it. And it's not a promise, it's a threat."

* * *

><p>Patrick cut the card into a dozen pieces and shoved it into the kitchen garbage before slipping down the hallway to his study, ignoring Nicola's entreaties to come see what Wills was doing. It would take only a few minutes to change the numbers back, and then he could pretend as he had for years that he was a family man on the weekends.<p>

He couldn't get in.

The system was frozen. Not even the I.T passwords he'd stolen would get him inside. **Maintenance, **the screen told him, only he knew it wasn't, knew someone had discovered what he'd done. "Stupid," he muttered. "Stupid, stupid." He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a folder, cryptically labeled JH and peered inside. "If that's how you want to play.."

_Wait_.

His hands went cold and began to shake. There was no way John would have any way to suspect how he'd gotten in. He had every right to be there. Even if John had told someone like a penitent idiot, they wouldn't have shut down the system. Someone else knew.

_Who? _

The building had been all but empty, but who would have suspected? Who would have thought he was doing something? He could have discovered within seconds if he'd had access, but he had nothing.

"Patrick, darling, you need to come see this." Nicola's voice wafted into the room and he thrust the folder back into the drawer and slammed it shut. "Patrick?"

He looked up to see what he always saw, _two eyes, hair, a mouth full of teeth, all expensive,_ and he smiled. "Yes, dear?"

"Wills wants his daddy," she said.

"I'll be there in a minute." _Smile, eye contact, wait_ and she smiled back at him and left him alone again, and he promptly forgot about her as he stared back at the screen.

**Maintenance.**

And he suddenly knew the only person who could have found him out.

* * *

><p><em>Likely six million<em>, she thought to herself, and it did not make her happy, so she merely smiled at Felix when he told her what the starting price would be at this latest auction, and went back to checking the curing on the canvas. It would not be ready to move for a few weeks, and even after that it would not be dry for quite some time, but the demand was so great that it made sense to sell it now. This one was unlike the others, all ice and snow, needling fingers trying to capture a tiny, inhuman creature with large, doe-like dark eyes, not quite girl and not quite fairy, and Eddie did not like it, because she could see nothing save the fact that she had painted Mary in that pinched and sad face, and what she had been trying to capture was no longer true. Percy saw it before Sybil did, and for that she loved him more than she had ever loved him, and even though he told her she did not need to sell it, was under no obligation to do so, she wanted it out of the studio.

And she wanted Mary home.

* * *

><p>Mary watched as Matthew picked out the first mussel and grinned when he rolled his eyes and let out a sound that was not quite human. She was proud of her financial acumen, proud that she had essentially raised her two younger sisters, but she chalked it up to her French blood that she was secretly just as proud of the fact she could cook so easily. That he did as well, and that it was essentially for the same reason only made her love him more, and she had to keep from reaching for him again until there was nothing but a pile of shells left, empty plates, and he had kept her from touching the dishes as he pulled her down into his lap, his lips on her throat. "Garlic," he murmured, and she laughed.<p>

"We'll stink for hours," she said. "And if we sweat..."

"Which we will," he said, and they began to, even as she laughed and pushed him away.

"Too much food," she said softly. "Not yet."

"All right," he said as he let her nestle against him instead. "We only have tonight, don't we? For more than a month?"

"Don't remind me." She sighed. "You this coming week. Me for two weeks after that. Then India."

"I'll be in Brussels. Oh, God. Mary. It'll be the damned Olympics before I see you again."

It was her turn to roll her eyes. "Not a moment alone. And the gold medal in sexual frustration goes to.."

He kissed her, the words lost, and his hands felt suddenly desperate. "Mary, it's not just that."

"I know." She found that place against his neck that she loved and closed her eyes. "But what else can we do?"

"Do you have a card that Greg doesn't manage?"

She craned her neck back to look at him. "What?"

"A credit card that Greg doesn't handle. Something that's not connected to the company at all?"

"One. My old green Amex. I use it for... Matthew, what are you thinking?"

He toyed with the thin chain around her neck. "If you pay for a mobile on that account, and if you only link to an email account on that mobile, then nobody will know about either the phone or the email."

Her mind spun. To be able to talk freely, to not think every word was being overheard... She saw nightly phone calls, a smile creeping over her face. "Brilliant," she said. "I can't believe I didn't think of it."

He laughed. "So one of us should buy the phones and set them up."

"And you think it ought to be me?"

"Is there any chance someone would see the bill?"

"No," she said. "Except Eddie, and she wouldn't even think..." She broke off and kissed him. "Matthew, when we both get back, I want you to meet Eddie. Come for dinner, get to know her. Please?"

"Only if you'll do something for me. Two things."

Mary nodded, her fingers undoing the buttons on his shirt.

"Three things," he said with a grin. "But before that. Come with me to Cambridge and meet Alice."

"Of course." Her mouth was on his chest nipping at his skin. "And?"

"I want to talk to Alastair. About us."

Her phone rang, but she didn't move, her eyes locked on Matthew's, even as the BeeGees rang out through the flat.

"It's late for Percy," Matthew said quietly, and Mary slid off his lap and picked it up, and mere seconds later, Matthew wished he'd kept her from answering it.

**TBC**


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Thank you all for your patience. Work. :D Thanks again to Eolivet for beta and ARCurren for listening to me plot things. The song is "Rise" from Craig Armstrong's "The Space Between Us." The language is slightly stronger in this. _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 19?**

"But he didn't say he knew what you'd done, did he?" Matthew kept his voice perfectly even, knowing the slightest sound of panic or anger would change the man's answer.

"No," John said quietly. "But I was one of the many who knew and just ignored it."  
>"So was I," Matthew said. "I don't think there's a person working at our level on Wall Street who didn't know there was something wrong. Could he have been referring to something else?"<p>

"No," John's voice was strong through the phone. "There's nothing. He specifically mentioned LIBOR, and I was part of the email chain at Bosworth Standish that discussed it without choosing to take any action. You weren't part of that chain. I should have said something to you then." He laughed. "Like you always say..."

"Amazing what people will put in emails," Matthew replied. "But inaction by people who were not directly involved with the manipulation looks worse than it actually is. There's nothing he can really do, and Patrick's not going to last. I'm not worried about anything he can do to you or to me at this point."

"What about Mary?"

Everything went cold and Matthew's fist clenched. "What about Mary?"

"Patrick seemed to think the two of you were conspiring about something."

His throat tightened. "Why would he think that?"

"I don't know. He just wondered if I'd noticed anything up between you two on the whole Euro mess, which of course, I haven't."

"So you think he was fishing?"

John sighed. "I suppose so. Matthew, I'm sorry about this. I just thought you needed to know."

"Thank you, John. I appreciate it. How are Simone & Charlie?" Mary's eyes flicked up to his, and his stomach flipped at the sight of tearstained cheeks. "I'm glad to hear it. Give them my love, won't you?"

"What about me?" Mary's voice was tight as he tossed his phone onto the chair.

"I don't know," Matthew said. "I think Patrick was just testing John."

"I told you," she hissed. "If he spent one tenth the time on work that he spent trying to get information about other people.."

"There's nothing to be done about it now." He took her hand as he sat next to her, and twisted their fingers together tightly. "Start at the beginning. What exactly did Percy tell you, outside of Patrick using your ID number?"

She lifted her glass of wine, draining it, her chin wobbling as she did so. "That he's done it before. Multiple times, according to the records. They keep the number swipes longer than the images, which Percy's just had security change. He took down the site until Patrick tried to log in, and I suppose he worked some Percy magic, because now he's tagged three ID logins that Patrick tried to use before turning the remote system back on." She let out a small laugh. "Something else about proxy masks. I don't know. Whatever he did, it'll automatically track all of Patrick's activity." She put her face into his chest. "You still want to tell Alastair?"

"I want to boot Patrick off the board."

"You can't. At least not without a majority vote."

"You don't think that presenting the board with the evidence that Patrick stole your ID number and used it to get inside the building is enough?" He felt her body shudder and he wrapped his arms around her.

"What happens if they vote to keep him? Matthew, he's got his fingers in everyone's pies." She laughed again. "I suppose this is what Rob meant." She extracted herself from his arms and went back to the kitchen for the wine bottle. "Keep your friends close..."

"You mean to tell me we've kept a blackmailer on the board?"

She poured the last of it in her glass and said nothing.

"So_ I've_ kept a blackmailer on the board," he said.

"You didn't know." She did not look at him as she took another sip.

"You did." He stood, and she realized she had never seen that look on his face.

Fury.

* * *

><p>Greg's iPhone buzzed for the third time that night, and his eye peeled open to read the short message.<p>

**Just rebooted the system. P changed his ID back.**

**Anything else? ** It took only seconds for Percy to reply.

**He knows you and Aurelie were in the building. **

Greg sat up in bed. **How?**

**He checked the swipe list for the day before he logged out, and then looked for both your swipe activity and hers over the past six months. **

Whatever sleep was left in him disappeared. **Does Aurelie know?**

**Not yet. **

**I'll tell her. **Greg's thumbs shook as he typed. _Crap,_ he thought. _Shit, shit, shit, fuck._

* * *

><p><em>Of course it was him. Little shit,<em> Patrick mused as he crept back into his bedroom. Nicola did not stir as he slipped beneath the covers and he rolled away from her and stared at the clock, his mind busily tumbling through all the possible ways he could remove the threats that now stood in his way. Rob's ignominious dismissal had seemed like a godsend, but instead, he found himself in a peculiar position of not being exactly sure where he stood with the entire board, especially considering he had come up entirely short when it came to Matthew Crawley. The man never put anything in an email. He didn't have enough on John Howland yet, but the man's nervousness made him believe there was more to be found. He had written off old Alastair years ago and he had destroyed all evidence, _all of it, the voice whispered,_ of the conference call that would have cleared Mary and implicated him in the Heidelmann-McIntyre scandal. Rafe's family would be humiliated if Patrick ever exposed what he knew about the former group finance director, and as for the rest of them... _cheats, thieves, unfaithful hypocrites... _

And then there was Rob, who would do anything to protect his secrets, and even if Mary decided to side with Matthew, what he knew about Eddie would keep her quiet. He yawned, the warmth of the bed finally making him sleepy, and as he closed his eyes he wondered if Mary was even aware of her sister's crimes.

* * *

><p>"You blame me for this?"<p>

"Shouldn't I?"

Mary laughed. "Aren't you the one who told me I was boxed in? I couldn't do anything?"

She was smaller somehow, receding at the end of a long tunnel, her voice unfamiliar. He felt assaulted by it, an entirely new sensation that he wanted to analyse almost as badly as he wanted to smash the glass in his hand. "Mary, I can only work with the information I'm given."

"You knew he was bad at his job..."

"Damn it, Mary!"

"Why is it that's never enough for a man?" She _wanted _to fight and it terrified her. "You know as well as I do the only time you can get rid of anyone is in a major management transition, and you kept him, even though you knew he was an idiot."

"Mary, you'll have to forgive me. The FT doesn't report on family dinner table squabbles, so I missed that the former CEO was a vindictive bastard on top of being an idiot. I got rid of every idiot I could."

"Squabbles?" Her voice froze the air around them both, and the urge to break something died inside him, and he put the glass down carefully. "Squabbles," she said again.

"Would you prefer tiffs? Disagreements?"

"He nearly killed my sister. He's spying on me. On _us,_ Matthew."

"And I was supposed to magically know this when I walked in the door? I'm supposed to read his mind? Predict his future crimes?"

"You certainly had a reputation for magic six months ago."

"You had..." He stopped, his heart pounding.

"A reputation?" she hissed.

"No," he said. "We're not... Mary, for God's sake... don't do this. Don't... I don't blame you. I would never blame you. I couldn't..."

"I blame Rob," she said quickly. "I blame Alastair. I blame every person who wasn't brave enough to stand up to him before and make him show his cards. That includes me, Matthew. Trust me. I blame myself." She drank again, her hands shaking now, her eyes not leaving his, willing the anger to leave his face. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ "Matthew, my father could have destroyed him when he wrecked that car and nearly killed Eddie, and he didn't. Can you imagine..." Her voice broke off and she felt suddenly sick, dizzy, the memory physically manifesting itself. She staggered and gripped the edge of the counter just as Matthew rushed up behind her.

"Sit," he whispered, and lifted her onto the cool granite, holding her as her head tipped down, the blood rushing back.

"What Patrick knows about my father is so terrible that losing his children is better than having it exposed," Mary muttered. "Think about that."

He did not want to, the anger flaring anew. "What a fucking mess," he said. "All the work we've done to clean things up, and this... deadweight has the ability to destroy it."

"And just think," she replied bitterly. "If he found out about us, it wouldn't matter what he'd done. All anyone would care about is this."

"Maybe Rob is still right," he said slowly.

"About what?"

"Friends close and enemies closer. Do you think he knows he's been found out?"

"I couldn't tell you. The system maintenance might make him suspect. You think keeping him for now is the only option?"

"Until we know more. Plus, he'll feel safe if nothing's said."

"And make a bigger mistake." Her voice was small as her hand brushed his, and he felt the tension between them ebb. "Still want to tell Alastair?"

He kissed the back of her head. "At some point, yes. Maybe not quite as soon as I was thinking."

She used his body and his arms to pull herself back upright, leaning into him as she wound her arms around his neck, her cheek on his shoulder. "And the phone idea?"

"It's not illegal to have a private mobile. Or to email someone, for that matter."

"It's the look of the thing that matters," she said. "But I do want you to meet Eddie. And I want to meet Alice. Again," she amended. "I don't know if we remember each other."

He did not answer as she sighed, letting their bodies make the apologies.

* * *

><p>Greg had expected many things, but not the sound of tears from Aurelie, who was furious at the idea that someone was spying on them and spying on their charges. "<em>Morceau de merde," <em>she hissed into the phone.

"Agreed," he said. "You need to tell Matthew."

"_Oui," _she said.

They were silent, and he knew she was still crying. "Do you want me to come over?" he asked when he heard her take a deep breath.

"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."

"Ten minutes," he replied, and in ten minutes, he was at her door with a bottle of that orange-rich cognac she secretly loved, and he shared her glass and let her vent until she fell asleep in his arms.

* * *

><p>Percy did not even bother going to bed. Holly would open one baleful eye at the slightest movement of the covers, and he did not have the energy to answer any more questions. The sofa was comfortable enough, and he tucked the thick throw around himself, knowing sleep would not come. He had thought this disaster was over, thought that Matthew and Mary and Alastair had cleaned house sufficiently, and he'd even believed the end of Rob's career at the firm would have ended any influence. Patrick should have naturally been the next to go, should have been afraid, and yet he still had stolen numbers, used Mary's to get into the building to see John Howland. Was it Mary's ID for a reason?<p>

Or was it merely spite? There had always been animosity between them, and Holly, who had only once witnessed the madness of the family in a charity event setting, had noted dryly that Patrick seemed to stare at Mary an awful lot. The cousin in him shuddered at the thought, but his brain began to play with the evidence, programming it, wondering at each disparate thread...

"Can't sleep?" Holly's voice broke through, and he focused on her, standing above him, wearing a _Take That_ t-shirt ("ironically," she'd insisted) and he smiled.

"Not a wink," he said. "My insane family just got a little bit more insane."

She held out her hand. "Come tell me about it. And skip the part about the dead Turkish diplomat. You've told me about it before."

* * *

><p>At some point, Matthew had taken her to bed, peeling off her clothes and tucking her under his chin as he simply held her, and at a later point, she had rolled over and taken him herself, that fierce, possessive side of her flaring as she sank down upon him. "I will not give you up," she whispered to him as he jerked beneath her, and he swore the same as she settled against his chest, his fingertips hypnotically stroking her back.<p>

She awoke before he did, and he found her back in the kitchen, manipulating delicate dough, her hands dipping in ice water to keep them cold, and he was fascinated by the result, a buttery, tender scone that tasted of American maple sugar, and they ate on the roof again, the sun already warm. _Six hours, _they thought, and they did not speak of it as they showered, dressed, and walked down the block to the small mobile phone store to purchase two unlocked smartphones, and they laughed at each other's chosen email address. _Five hours, _they thought as they stopped to pick up a few things for lunch, and they argued over the ingredients. He bought flowers for her, and wished he could take a photograph so he could remember her laughing with the broken bloom in her hand. _Four hours,_ she thought as she cooked by his side. "Three hours," he said aloud as he put the last of the dishes away. They did not speak for the last hours, save for gasps and cries, and not until she was standing in the lift, the bag by her feet, did the words come.

"I love you," he said. "I'll see you in July."

"July 26th," she replied. "The night before the Games. Eddie's auction."

"Will she be there?"

"No," Mary said, just as the lift doors opened. "I love you." She leaned up and kissed him again. "Every night."

"Every night," he repeated. "Mary..."

She stopped just before the door, gripping the handle.

"Once things are settled, I don't want to wait. I won't wait..."

"Neither will I," she said quietly. "But they have to be settled. Everything has to be out in the open. Everything..."

"You do know it could mean some very bad things."

She nodded. "Yes. I know. But it's time we stripped Crawley Martin Thorpe of all its luggage."

He watched her get into the cab, turning so he would not see it drive off, the superstitions of his ex still embedded in him, and he felt his throat close again. He looked down at his phone, noting that Aurelie had now called five times, and he waited until he was back inside to call her.

* * *

><p>Greg was waiting outside customs, and he took her bags with only the most perfunctory of greetings, which was unlike him, but Mary, still shaken from her fight with Matthew and groggy from lack of sleep, did not press him. Only when he escorted her past the lines of chauffeured cars and toward the car park did she begin to wonder what was up. "Greg?"<p>

He opened the back of a Land Rover she did not recognize and as she stepped in, she understood.

"The thing is," Percy said quietly as he pulled out into traffic. "We can watch him now without him ever knowing."

"Good," Mary said grimly.

"But ethically, it's a bit of a muddle," he continued. "And we have to decide how much we tell Matthew and Alastair."

"Matthew knows," Greg said. "Aurelie informed him late last night."

She realized they were telling her, thinking she didn't know, and it suddenly struck her that going forward, unless she chose her words very carefully, everything she said would be a lie.

"It's important he knows," she replied. "Percy, it's best if you explain to him everything you've done. I think you should call him from a private landline. Not from the office."

Percy nodded, and as they sped toward London, not one of them noticed the small green Ford weaving with them through the traffic.

**TBC**


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Thank you again for your support and patience... oh, real life, why? Thanks to Eolivet as always for the beta, and ARCurren for listening to me plot. _

_Soundtrack? Put on some Radiohead and sit back..._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 20?**_  
><em>

At first, the jet lag made her forget for a moment that the thing blaring Radiohead was her new smartphone and she should answer it. She stared stupidly at her bag, wondering _what on earth?_ And then just as suddenly, she remembered.

"You're an animal trapped in my hot car?" she murmured as she answered it.

He laughed. "It's only the title that matters. Although... Never mind. How was your flight?"

"Ordinary. No emergencies. There wasn't a soul on it with whom I'd want to hold hands." She lowered herself onto the chaise and stared through the skylight. "Percy's telling Alastair tomorrow. I imagine you'll get a phone call."

"Aurelie warned me. Are you prepared for what will be unleashed if we decide to set him free?"

It was that same visceral reaction, the same wave of sickness that struck at the thought. "I suppose so."

"I don't think we will, I'm just... Mary, is it possible he has something on Eddie?"

For a moment he thought the connection had broken. "Mary?"

"I couldn't tell you," she said slowly. "I don't know what it would be. Matthew, about Eddie... most people who knew her before think she's bedridden and incapacitated. They don't know... anything. I want to keep it that way."

"I understand."

"How was your day?" She closed her eyes and listened as he told her of an early morning run along the Hudson, and an encounter with a chocolate Labrador puppy named Ellie that made him rethink his decision about getting a dog.

**_The Telegraph:  
><em>_G20 LEADERS WARN U.S. OVER DEFICIT. DON'T GO OFF "FISCAL CLIFF"_**

"Well," Alastair said. "That's rather sinister, isn't it?"

Percy nodded, and stared down at the small speaker attached to his cell phone. "Matthew?"

"Could we get him off the board? Right now, would we have enough votes to remove him?"

Alastair snorted. "You're not inclined to just hand him over to Scotland Yard for that?"

"I would, only I think he's prepared to drop a bombshell on this company and I don't want it to happen until we know what it is, and we're ready for it." Matthew sighed. "Right now, the crimes are only against us. Document everything, loop in Ben Macmillan, and let me know anything he does this week. We have people on him?"

"Yes," Percy replied. "I'll talk to Ben this afternoon."

"Set up a viewing of his art," Matthew said. "We need to keep all of this off-site."

Alastair chuckled. "I wondered why you insisted on meeting here." He walked out onto Percy's terrace and stared across the water. "I'm not sure I'd ever come inside with this view, old chap."

**_Bloomberg:  
><em>_MOODY'S DOWNGRADES SPANISH BANKS_**

"Stand up on your knees on the front part of your mat." Jemma's crisp voice echoed through the room. "Put your hands on your hips. Mary," she said suddenly. "You should try full camel. Watch Kathryn and see what she does."

Mary, who had wearily agreed to come to Jemma's Friday evening class, started to shake her head, but Jemma shot her a look that reminded her so much of the old Jemma on the trading floor that she grinned. "You won't be smiling," Jemma warned and pointed at Kathryn, who had, somehow, dropped her head to the floor behind her and grabbed her heels with her hands. She could have sworn she heard the girl curse under her breath. "Mary, hands in prayer. Try diving back like in the first backbend and look for your feet."

As she stretched back, Mary remembered why she'd talked Jemma into private practices in the mornings, just them, without the harsh light and exposure of being in a hot room sweating with fifty other people. She traced the ceiling and the back wall with her eyes.

"Can you see your feet?"

Her arches suddenly came into view. "Yes."

"Grab your heels and push your hips forward again."

The rush was insane, the connection of head to feet like an electric shock.

"Breathe in for six."

Mary's lungs expanded, and she felt the urge to laugh start to bubble up.

"Out for six. Hips forward."

And she gasped as the sensation made her think of Matthew pulling her forward.

"And slowly come up."

Mary rose to find Jemma smiling at her from across the room. "Savasana."

**Madwoman. Who does anything in 40° heat?  
><strong>**You should try it. I'll call you later.**

"Told you." Jemma handed Mary a towel and smiled as she emerged shaking from the shower.

"That was mad," Mary murmured. A thud on the door and a chorus of "MUMMY" made them both jump.

"In a minute. Go find Daddy." She turned back to Mary. "Surprised?"

"What made you think I could do it?"

"You always could."

"Thanks, Glinda."

Jemma giggled. "I'm serious. You know what that pose is like. You just have to be open enough to do it, both physically and emotionally. So?"

"What?" Mary sat down on the teak bench and squeezed more water out of her hair.

"Bright eyes wasn't just a one-Barcelona stand, was he?"

"No," Mary said, and began to twist up her hair before Jemma swatted her hands away. "Don't ruin my fun." Her fingers wound multiple strands of hair up and into a plait that twisted around Mary's head, finishing in a long fishtail. "Your turn."

"When was the last time we did this?" Mary said as she did the same to Jemma's thick blonde hair.

"Class and hair and.." There was another crash outside and another "MUMMY" bellowed from the top of three-year-old lungs. "Never mind. I know the exact date." She admired Mary's work. "How many more nights?"

"What?"

"Mr. Pretty."

"He's called Matthew." She pulled on soft leggings and a t-shirt. "And I saw him when I was in New York."

"Is 'saw' a euphemism?"

"Yes."

"Mary, you know this could..."

"Jemma, I know what this could do. I know what it looks like, what it makes me look like, and for once in my life, I might not care. Might," she emphasized. "Anyway, I won't see him for a month. Not until Eddie's auction, anyway." She stood up and was stunned as Jemma suddenly hugged her. "What is it?"

"Told you," Jemma whispered. "You'll just _know."_

**_AP:  
><em>_IPOs COLLAPSE AFTER FACEBOOK'S FAILURE_**

He parked the BMW next to her space, and missed her already as the lift sped to the top. He looked down at his new phone one last time, at the morning text **have a good day at work, darling **before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket. _Over my heart,_ he thought, and he didn't realize it sparked a stupid grin until the lift doors opened and Aurelie gave him a look of death he hadn't received in quite some time. "Good morning, sunshine," he said, and she took his pack without a word.

"You have direct reports in twenty minutes. Then an off-site. I'll accompany you to that." She glared at him. "And someone called about a dog."

The direct reports meeting went precisely as it should, which meant there was very little to report and a great deal to complain about, especially when it came to other firms. He missed Mary's wry takes on the headlines, even though her deputy in group finance was utterly brilliant, and more than once he found himself catching Alastair's eye and knowing they were both thinking, _he's not Mary. _Aurelie signaled the end to him, and after closing out the meeting, he waited with Alastair until Aurelie beckoned to the pair of them, and they followed her to the south entrance where the cars waited, and they slipped without speaking into a black Range Rover, Aurelie in the front seat next to the driver, who Matthew was only partly surprised to see was Greg.

"We're meeting at Ben's," Aurelie said, and in answer to Matthew's slightly puzzled look, she added "Greg was the one who figured this all out."

He was about to say he knew, only he realized he _shouldn't _know, and before he had to respond, Percy jumped in with them and Greg took off with surprising skill for an American in London traffic.

**_Financial Times:  
><em>_CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE STOCK PRICE SURGES; BRIGHT STAR IN DIMMING LONDON SPHERE._**

"I woke up sucking a lemon?"

She laughed. "I know. The titles are always so good, but the lyrics ruin the romance. How was your day?"

"Well, we've put up a perimeter around Patrick."

"So he's staying on?"

"For now." He picked up the glass of Scotch and watched the liquid swirl around the giant cube of ice. "Enemies closer. Percy's done a rather amazing job of figuring out how to secretly track his activities in a manner that does not tread into a legal grey area."

"I'm glad," she said. "Greg gave me a brief rundown."

Matthew let out a snort. "Our assistants are going to make this very hard. I keep forgetting how we all share information. They're as thick as thieves."

"I know. It's good, though. Until they're competing for the same job."

"Are they?"

"I don't know." Mary tipped back in the low canvas chair and closed her eyes. "He's been quite cagey about it."

"I hope it doesn't come to that. I don't think either of us want to choose. How's the farm?"

"Lovely. I wish you were here."

"So do I. How's Eddie?"

"Morose." She glanced over at the barn, where a fire burned merrily in a stone pit. "She's burned a couple of canvases when she knows I hate the smell, and her sketches are making her peevish. I think she's upset about the upcoming auction, but she won't tell me. The preview was like a feeding frenzy."

"Is she staying the whole time?"

"Yes. Are you offering to join us?"

"If only I could."

Mary sighed and looked back at the fire, in which Eddie had dumped a third canvas, and as the flames jumped across it, she wondered why it looked so different from anything she'd seen before.

**_Wall Street Journal:  
><em>_SQUABBLES OVER EUROZONE MEAN WASTELAND FOR EQUITY MARKET_**

"Where are you now?"

"Brussels," he said softly as he picked at the tray of food. "How's Mumbai?"

"Hot and wet," she said and added a "No, stop," when he laughed. "I'm not." She sank into the bed and laughed with him.

**_The Times of London:  
><em>_LONDON FUNDRAISER TO BENEFIT AMERICAN REPUBLICAN PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE MITT ROMNEY_**

The box was thin and rectangular and tightly wrapped, shipping information stamped all over it. Aurelie was mildly suspicious of it, but Matthew said he was expecting it and shared no more information, and she felt slightly sad at the chance she would not know what was in it. "Mary Crawley just checked in," she said.

"Did she?" He did not look up from his papers. "I thought they were arriving after we left tomorrow."

"According to Greg, she wanted to make an early night of it tonight and rest before her meeting tomorrow." She picked up the last set of files and put them in a case. "Will you need anything else tonight?"

"No," he said. "You should enjoy yourself. Make Greg take you out. I'm sure one of you owes the other dinner."

"He does," she said with a laugh. "Several of them. He has no idea how often I save him."

"Are you aware of how often he saves you?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she said. "But he still owes me dinner."

"All right. Five a.m wakeup call and breakfast, please."

"Of course."

"Aurelie?"

"Yes?"

"Put your dinner and whatever else you do on my account tonight. I owe you both. Much more than that, but..." He ruffled his hair. "It's Berlin. Go have fun. And can you drop this off with Greg for Mary?" He handed her one of the folders he'd been perusing and she nodded.

"Thank you, Matthew."

"Thank you, Aurelie."

The door clicked shut, and he peeled back the paper on the package and opened the box to find a merrily wrapped present in the shape of a book.

**Alone yet?  
><strong>**Yes.**

"HALLO BERLIN," Greg called as they reached the street.

"Tourist."

"Happy tourist," he said, and swung her around before hailing a taxi. "What do you want? And it's apparently on Mary Crawley. She told me to take you out."

"Matthew told me the same thing." She told the driver where to go. "They're trying to get rid of us."

He started to laugh, but stopped. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't put that in my head." He wound his arm around her shoulder and they watched the city fly by, both distracted by the same thought.

**Are you coming?  
><strong>**I'm about to...**

He heard the click of the door, but did not turn around, preferring to watch her reflection moving toward him in the dark glass of the windows. "Took you long enough," he said quietly.

"I see it arrived," she replied. "You didn't open it?"

He held up the wrapped package. "I was waiting for you."

"Happy birthday," she whispered as she he pulled her into his arms, and he didn't answer for a few minutes, their kiss a leisurely one, as if they had more than seven hours together on this July night.

"You're my present," he murmured, and she rolled her eyes.

"If you say you're going to unwrap me, or any form of said cliché, I will..." She kissed him again. "Something. Open it. No, the present, you goon."

The paper fell away to reveal a slipcovered book, not quite old, and his face softened as he noted the title. "Oh, Mary."

"You're quite difficult to shop for, you know," she whispered against his cheek. "But for the man who has everything..."

He let the book slide carefully out of its case and it fell open to the signed page. "Number 215 of 300," he read, and his finger traced the signature _e.e. cummings_ before he kissed her again. "So I really can carry your heart."

"Well, I wouldn't drag it around Europe," she murmured. "The book, I mean. You are welcome to drag me around Europe."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Tonight? Nowhere." She nestled closer. "Here."

**_Financial Times:  
><em>_CENTERBANK CHAIRMAN TO STEP DOWN AMID RATE FIXING SCANDAL. "BANK WITHOUT A RUDDER"_**

"What happened?"

Mary rolled back to him. "Max is out after the LIBOR mess. I'm not surprised."

"Neither am I." He kissed the top of her head distractedly. "So both a chairman and a CEO hunt."

"I don't envy them that. Poor Margaret. She's never going to get to move up at this rate."

He laughed. "I don't think anyone ever talks about her without calling her 'poor Margaret.' And she's not."

"Well, no." She laughed. "But outside of the money, she's been terribly unlucky in career advancement."

He answered with a kiss, which did not speak of careers or banks, and she was breathless when he stopped. "We should not," he muttered, "talk of such things in our bed. Except..." He put his head down in the middle of her chest, his warm cheek making her heart flutter again. "What if I went to Centerbank?"

She stiffened in his arms. "Matthew.."

"Hear me out. Crawley Martin Thorpe is on top right now, because of you. If I did go, it could be an even bigger sign that it's stable, and.." He traced the curve of her breast with his fingertip. "We could start this sooner."

"You're forgetting something about our stability."

"Patrick." He groaned and rolled over, pulling her with him. "You don't want to handle him on your own?"

"I'm not suited to the job," she muttered. "I have a personal stake in whether he lives or dies, to be perfectly honest." She tilted her head to look at him. "You really think it's a good idea to leave now."

"Is it ever the right time?"

She stroked his stomach, watching it twitch under her fingers. "I want this too," she said finally. "Every day, every night. But until we've eliminated that.. problem... I don't think we can move forward. And I can't tell you what decision to make. If you want to try to fix Centerbank because that's what you do, I won't stop you."

"Will you understand?"

"You've already decided." She propped herself up on an elbow. "You weren't surprised because someone's already called you about it."

"I haven't decided, but yes, someone called me. Just a courtesy check and hello. Not an offer." He sat up. "I hate this secrecy, Mary."

"Enough to potentially ruin what we've started? I mean at CMT," she added hastily.

"I don't think it will. Not with you and Alastair at the helm. I feel like I'm not doing anything. I mean that. It's on the two of you." He held out his hand and she took it, their thumbs sliding into their dance. "Will you understand?"

"Of course." She pressed up with both hands and kissed him quickly, and he laughed against her mouth. "Impressive position," he murmured.

"Cobra," she said. "What else do you want to see?"

**_Art+Auction:  
><em>_FIFTY SHADES OF MYSTERY: WHY EVERYONE WANTS AN E.C. AND WHY THEY'RE RIGHT._**

It only happened in the middle of the night, and only when the nightmares came back, and only when there was no Mary to stroke her cheek and whisper to her. Eddie thought it would be all right now that the painting was gone, and the studio was clean, and there were new sketches to paint from... but it wasn't all right, and she couldn't help herself. _It was too easy, it had always been too easy, that was part of the problem,_ she told herself as she laid out each piece. No music, there could never be music for this. She drank a glass of water first _clear mind_ and unwrapped her secret kit, carefully putting each piece in the place she liked it best. The old cup, filled with fresh water at precisely her favorite temperature. The old brushes, propped up just so, the paper perfectly stretched and prepared, the easel at just the right angle to catch the artificial sunlamps she'd turned on. She spoke aloud, words for no one else as she began from memory, the color wash exploding on the paper, the details emerging, a wet street in Venice, a woman with a market basket and umbrella bent against the rain. She did not notice the time ticking by until real sunlight began to play with the fake in her eyes, and she sat back with a triumphant smile. It had never been painted, was never real, and yet there it was in all its perfection, and she added the signature with a delicate flourish. She stretched, yawned, and went into the kitchen while it dried, coming back with a mug of steaming coffee and a large steel bowl filled with more water. After a long stare at the painting, with a small smile she peeled it off the prep board, tore it into a dozen pieces, and dunked the mess into the bowl of water, swirling and swirling until there was nothing visible, and after draining it in the studio sink and throwing the paper mush away, she carefully stretched another piece of paper on the board, and allowed it to dry as she cleaned each antique brush and cleaned her cup. In twenty-four hours, they would all be dry and hidden away until it came back, and it always came back.

**_Washington Post:  
><em>_FUROR OVER CHINESE-MADE AMERICAN OLYMPIC UNIFORMS_**

"Either you're for the free market or you're not," Matthew muttered as he scanned the story. Mary emerged from the bathroom, pulling on her hooded jumper.

"What, the uniforms? Wait until you read the bit about someone thinking berets are too French and Americans wouldn't be caught dead in them." She slipped on her shoes.

"Awkward for the Green Berets."

"Precisely." She sat on the edge of the bed. "4:45. What time do you leave?"

"Seven." He tugged her into his arms again. "I love you. I'll text when I've landed."

"Good boy." She kissed him softly on the nose, the chin, and on each of his eyes. "Matthew, do what you have to do."

"I will."

"I love you," she whispered. She slipped out of the room and back down to her own without noticing a shadow at the opposite end of the hallway.

**I love you more...  
><strong>**Safe flight. I'll see you on the 26th.**

Aurelie didn't feel angry, just slightly disappointed. She'd been right, of course, she was always right about people and it wasn't enjoyable, but she'd thought they were different. Yet that was Mary Crawley ducking out of Matthew Crawley's suite, dressed in something ten levels below business casual, and she waited to feel angry or sick or furious, but there was nothing, and she let herself into her own suite with a sigh. As badly as she wanted to share this information, there was only one person she'd want to tell, and she couldn't bear the thought of him being disappointed.

**_The Guardian:  
><em>_LONDON WHALE LEAVES BANK AFTER DISASTROUS TRADES._**

"That's something, at least," Matthew muttered as Aurelie tucked the last file in her bag.

"Do you have everything?" she asked as she always did, and he nodded. _As brave as I'll ever be_, she thought, and took a deep breath. "Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"You know... you can tell me things. If there's something going on. You should tell me. I can help."

He stared at her for so long, silent and inscrutable, that she feared the next word out of his mouth would be _fired._

"There is something," he said quietly. "It's about Centerbank."

**_The Times of London:  
><em>_ART AUCTION SPLASH TO LAUNCH OLYMPICS. ENGLISH PAINTER E.C.'s LATEST WORK TO GO UP TONIGHT, PREDICT £6M PRICE TAG._**

The place was a zoo, invitation-only, and Mary could barely squeeze in as the crowds moved toward the large space, where the painting hung on a black wall, lit so that the fragile images sparkled, the detail extraordinary, and it made Mary smile to think _Eddie did this._ She caught sight of Sybil near the front of the room, and wound her way up to her.

"Hail the conquering..."

"Shut up," Mary said with a grin. "I can't wait to sleep in my own bed tonight. How's Eddie?"

"All right, I suppose. Nervous." Sybil lowered her voice. "I had no idea she hated it."

"I know." Mary glanced at it, glad she had chosen to pull her hair up, so as to eliminate one more way that disturbing creature seemed to resemble her. "Anyway, it'll be gone tonight. Hello, Felix. Any suspicions on bidders?"

"The usuals," he said. "And your father."

Mary froze. "You're joking."

"Afraid not." He leaned forward. "He doesn't know. It's not him, it's Charlotte, and anyway, Ben Macmillan sold two Turners last week and I think he's ready to go a lot higher than expected. How much does Crawley Martin Thorpe pay him, anyway?"

"It's his mother's money. North Sea oil, I think."

"Well, as long as he's spending it." Felix grinned. "Excuse me." He kissed Sybil on the cheek and wove through the crowd.

"Have you seen Rob?"

"No, and honestly, you've got to stop calling him that."

"Darling?"

"I mean it, Mary. Especially in front of other people. It's cruel. And don't give me that line about how he deserves it. I know he deserves it. He deserves a lot of things, but it should be beneath you to be that petty. I'm sorry, but it's true."

Mary opened her mouth to object, but she knew Sybil was right. It was beneath her. "What if I don't say anything to him at all?"

"Might be the best way all around," Sybil muttered. "Since I'm relatively sure he won't want to speak to this one. Hello, Matthew."

"Hello, Sybil. Nice to see you again. And home is the sailor, home from the sea." He grinned at Mary, who rolled her eyes.

"Honestly. The art, the poetry..." She grinned back. "Everything still the way I left it at the office?"

"More or less. We'll talk later. Ben's ready to bid up to the sky for this."

"I've heard."

There was a bit of a commotion, as the auctioneer called for everyone to sit down, and Felix gave a speech about the elusive E.C, and Mary heard him drop two male pronouns and two female ones, causing quite a stir and a thoroughly hilarious comment behind her from a very old lady who wondered if that made the artist a travesty. "The word is 'transvestite,' dear," the younger woman sitting next to her drawled, and Sybil had to be shushed for giggling.

It began at one million pounds, and within seconds, it had topped three, then four, then five, and in thirty more seconds it was finished. "Sold, to Charlotte Crawley for £6.6m." There were gasps at the sum, and then Felix gaveled again. "Ladies and gentleman, the artist has chosen to donate the entire sale price to the British Paralympic Association."

It was greeted with thunderous applause, and Mary was glad of it, for it made her small sob inaudible, and it let her look at Matthew, who understood. Sybil stood on her chair and led a cheer, which made her laugh.

**Nice one, **she texted Eddie.

The gallery assistant had told Ben his briefcase was in the office on the left, but there were two offices on the left, and while he was mildly amused at the potential reasons for her inability to grasp spatial reality, he did not have time to be polite. He went to the far left one first, which had to be Felix's office, and found not only his briefcase, but an angry person on instant messenger, who was pinging Felix at an alarming rate. **How much? ** the person kept typing, and after a glance around, Ben typed back **£6.6m. Were you bidding too?**

Eddie sat back with a start. Her own camera was off, but Felix's was on. It wasn't Felix. It wasn't anyone she knew, but he looked awfully familiar. **Not on this one,** she typed back.

**I know what you mean. I'm not as sorry as I thought I'd be about getting it. It's beautiful, but there's something so sad about it. **

**It is sad. **_Ben Macmillan, that's who,_ she thought. _Hood._ **But so are all of E.C.'s works.**

**True, **he responded. **This is different. **

**Maybe E.C is sad.**

**Maybe,** he typed. **But I think it's about more than being sad. It's observing sadness and wanting to fix it, but in this painting, there's no way to fix it. She's surrounded.**

Eddie paused. **That's rather astute. Perhaps you'll get the next one.**

Ben snorted. **I'm about to get priced out, I fear. **

**Careful **popped up on screen. **Might be a flash-in-the-pan.**

**I don't think so, **he replied.

**I do. **

"Ben?" It was Felix.

**Shh. Goodbye.** And the connection broke just as he stood up. "Getting my briefcase" he called out as Felix walked in. "Does E.C know yet how much she's giving to the Paralympic Association."

"No," Felix said distractedly and looked at the computer. "We're supposed to... oh, fuck. Really? After all this time?"

Ben grinned. "I knew it_," _he murmured, _sotto voce, _and as he agreed to keep it secret, he realized with a warm flush that E.C did already know how much.

He was the one who told _her._

**Will I see you tomorrow night?  
>Yes, and I want you to come to dinner Sunday to meet Eddie. And Jemma. I think you need to know Jemma.<strong>

The flurry was around Charlotte, and her friends, and the scads of collectors congratulating her on her acquisition, and so no one noticed Rob Crawley standing in front of the painting, staring at the thing his wife had bought... _he'd bought. _He took another drink as he looked at it closely, at the twisted face, the knife-like fingers of ice, the pain...

And it was like a knife in his own gut as he _knew._

_**TBC.**  
><em>


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: For those following along, the song is "Paradise" by Coldplay, I broke my hand so this took far longer than expected, and you all are darlings and I love you for sticking with it. Eolivet and ARCurren, thanks for listening and reading. _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 21?**

For all the moaning his native land had done at the thought of the Olympics, the burst of national pride that began with the insults of a tactless American politician and peaked at the extraordinary medal-rich Saturday was impressive, Matthew had to admit. He had not expected it, had not thought London hosting an Olympics was necessarily a good idea and yet.. In the velodrome for the cycling, in the stadium for the track medals, it had all been incredible, and it had all been wildly frustrating, because she was always there, seated two or three seats away, and for the first time in his life he was actually jealous of the Duke of Cambridge, because he was allowed to hug the woman he loved when Team Great Britain crossed the finish line first.

Now, the Sunday night after that extraordinary day, as he absent-mindedly ruffled his hair, he was waiting to cross a line. He stood outside her door, waiting for it to open, oddly terrified at the prospect of dinner with Mary and her sister.

It was not Mary who opened the door, but a tiny blonde with a phone to her ear. "Because Mummy said so," she said as she smiled and waved him in. "Maida, what has Mummy said about that word? Thank you. Put Daddy on." She frowned at looked at the phone before hanging up. "Or not. Hi, I'm Jemma. I'm here to make conversation easier and to judge you."

He laughed aloud and took her hand. "I'm Matthew. I'm here to take uncomfortable questions and eat."

"Well, they'll be plenty of that. She's gone a little mad in the kitchen," Jemma murmured as she led him down the long hall. He noticed the paintings, watercolours, oils, multimedia pieces, and stopped in front of one with a cupcake on it. "They're all Eddie's work."

He looked at Jemma. "Is there something I should avoid speaking about? Is there anything I should know before going in there?"

"You think I'm here to help you?" She tilted her head. "I think you'll do just fine."

He followed her into an enormous room, living, dining, and kitchen in one, the brick walls giving way to skylights above them. Mary was in the kitchen, in the Radiohead t-shirt he loved, and his heart lurched as he realized he could do exactly as he wanted in this room.

"Hello, darling," she said as he approached and kissed him gently, holding her hands away from them. "I'm all garlic. Watch out."

He nuzzled her cheek. "Doesn't matter. I get to do this." He kissed her again, and bumped her nose with his own. "What's for dinner?"

"You can start with that. And pour me one." She nodded toward a cold bottle of Lillet. "Proper French tonight. I hope you're hungry."

There was no sign of Eddie, but Jemma put four glasses in front of him, and dropped in the slices of orange as he poured. "Eddie, stop being rude and come out here. There's Lillet."

A door opened and he turned to see a blonde woman limp into the room leaning on a stick. She took a glass from Jemma and turned her attention to Matthew.

"I'm Matthew," he said. "It's nice to meet you."

He didn't know what he had expected. The image of a laughing little girl from that one photograph was burned into his mind, but the woman standing in front of him bore no resemblance to the child other than the colouring. There was no smile on the scarred face, no light in the grey eyes that matched Rob Crawley's so exactly it was unnerving. She seemed fragile, broken almost, but the look on her face did not seem weak. She did not stop looking at him as she wandered into the kitchen, still leaning on that too-tall antique stick, and began tapping on what he realized was a keyboard embedded in the counter. **The famous Matthew,**scrolled across the screen near Mary. **If you hurt my sister, I'll kill you.**

"Eddie!" Mary dropped the knife with a clatter into the sink.

Those flat grey eyes continued to stare at him, and he didn't flinch. "Didn't your sister tell you to never put anything in writing?" he asked.

Her mouth twitched ever so slightly. **What's your criminal record look like?**

Mary put her head on the counter.

"Ask me again at the end of the night," he replied.

And Eddie giggled and she raised her glass to him. **I hope you like **_**poulet roti.**_

He did, and he found he liked Eddie, who was entirely friendly after her first barrage of attacks. She stayed silent for the rest of the meal preparation, checking occasionally on something in the oven, but she shared her cheese straws with him and grinned conspiratorially at him more than once. Jemma was just as friendly, but she picked up where Eddie left off, asking carefully worded questions about his past. _No, I've never been married or engaged or asked... My sister is a senior lecturer now at Cambridge... Political thought and intellectual history, actually... she's no fun to fight with. _

He was relieved when Mary handed a spoon to Jemma. "Five minutes. Keep it from sticking. Take it off the heat as soon as it thickens." She held out her hand. "Come see the rest of the apartment."

**I like him.**

Jemma watched them walk out to the terrace. "So do I." She raised one eyebrow at Eddie. "But if the worst happens, I'll help you hide the body."

* * *

><p>"That wasn't too painful, was it?"<p>

"Not this part." He let his lips drag across her cheek as they stared out at the night falling on London. "And no, not really. They love you. It's only natural they would want to interrogate me. Anyway, they haven't asked the right question yet."

She leaned into him. "Which question would that be?"

"What are my intentions?" He could feel her grow still against him, her hand the only movement, her fingertips tangling in his hair.

"What are they?" she whispered back.

"Tonight, to figure out how to bring you home with me," he said and felt her begin to laugh.

"You could stay here."

"You don't think it's awkward?"

"Well, it might be. But I'm starting not to care." Her eyes glittered as she looked up at him.

"I think you know what the rest of my intentions are," he said softly, and kissed her.

"It's thickened!" Jemma called from the kitchen.

"Yes, it has," Mary murmured with a grin.

The food was wonderful, and so were the laughs, which he had not expected. Jemma told tales about Mary as a trader in the early days when she couldn't figure out why the futures guys were touching their faces, and Mary retaliated with how Jemma had very nearly caused a half-billion dollar loss when they were working in New York, and it was only because she'd sneezed and missed the ENTER key on the first try that she caught her own mistake. Eddie regaled them with the story of a client of Felix's who had asked if EC could paint something about Doctor Who, maybe the weeping angels or Daleks or something, to which Felix had apparently replied that he'd exterminate the man on the spot for such a stupid request. **You probably liked the Eighth Doctor, didn't you, you twat? **

"Good God," Mary picked up her plate. "What are you working on now, if not a custom sofa-sized Dalek paint-by-numbers?"

Eddie giggled and sawed her hand across her lips and put one finger up.

"No names, no pack drill. Fine." Mary smiled. "Why don't you show Matthew while Jemma and I clean up. Then you can serve that mysterious dessert."

The studio was dark, the only light from outside, the glass wall and ceiling letting in the blue-black of the London night, and Eddie switched on a work light as he entered. A massive white canvas stood ready, entirely blank, and it wasn't until he got quite close that he could see the grid, the barest lines of pencil marking out the start of something. "Any hint?" Matthew said as he turned, and then he was silenced by the view.

The back wall was photographs, sketches, pieces of paper, all taped, nailed, stuck to each other in a seemingly random pattern, only as Matthew kept staring at it, he realized dark and light were falling in a perfectly structured pattern, and more importantly, he could read what it said.

"Criminal," he said softly to Eddie. "You? Or someone else?"

She smiled sadly at him.

"What does it mean?" he asked.

**Nothing. At least not yet.** She picked up a photograph. **You do look like him.**

It was a wedding photograph, an old one, but not a formal one, the groom helping the bride lift her veil with such a look of love that he felt his own heart lurch a bit at the sight. "I haven't been that blond since I was a baby," he said. "Are you painting this?"

**Perhaps something like it. I meant what I said about killing you if you hurt her. **

"I know you did."

She tilted her head. **What are your intentions toward my sister?**

He smiled gently. "Funny you should ask."

It was quiet in there, too quiet, and both Jemma and Mary kept looking warily toward the door. "She won't kill him now," Jemma muttered, but Mary did not laugh, and her head whipped up far too quickly when the door opened and the two walked out. Eddie was leaning on Matthew and she gave Mary a thoroughly happy smile as she switched her weight to the old stick and went to the oven.

"Still alive?" Mary murmured.

"We've come to an understanding," he said just as Eddie placed an apple tart on the counter with a flourish.

"Oh, my God. Eddie..." Jemma squealed. "Are those... lovebirds?"

They were, the apples cut and twisted in such a way to resemble the birds, surrounded by overlapping hearts. "So we are to eat an original EC?" Mary said with a smile, and Eddie brandished a knife, but let Matthew take a quick picture of the delicate tart before slicing it apart.

He did not stay, promising Mary with a whisper that they would figure something out that week, and he left with Jemma, who was silent until they were both in the lift. "I've never seen her so happy," she said quietly.

"If Eddie doesn't kill me, you will?"

"Something like that," she replied. "But if you're planning on jumping ship to Centerbank, you really ought to tell her first." At his startled look, she shrugged. "Just because I left it behind doesn't mean I don't still hear things. Does she know?"

"She knows."

Jemma nodded. "So just keep being honest with her. That way I won't have to kill you."

_I love you, my Mary. Good night and God bless you. _She felt the heat cross her cheeks and a giggle erupted from Eddie. "Stop it," she said. "He's just saying good night."

**Why didn't he stay? I can just turn up the music.**

"Do you like him?"

**Very much. He's far smarter than anyone else you've ever dated. **

"You never met any of my other dates."

**That's what you think. **She waggled her brows. **I'm going to sketch for a bit. **She wrapped her arms around her sister and hummed three times, and Mary hummed back, their own secret _I love yous_ before Eddie picked up a mug of tea and disappeared into the studio.

_Good night, my Matthew. I love you._

* * *

><p><strong>I have something for you. <strong>

Felix clapped his hands together. "You've been so cagey about this next work. What is it? Sketch? What can I see?"

She shook her head **It's actually for a client of yours.**

"You didn't paint a Dalek, did you?"

She laughed, and Felix was reminded of how far she'd come in the time he'd known her. **It's for that Ben Macmillan. The one who didn't get this last painting.**

"The one you chatted with. Eddie, I'm sorry..."

She waved him off. **I made something for him. Could you give it to him? **

"Not to be... well, I'm going to sound greedy no matter what I say now, won't I? You're giving him a work?"

**It's not a work, it's just something. Greedy. Anyway, he was honest about the last painting and I appreciated that. **

Felix threw up his hands. "Fine. But he'd better not go around saying if you don't win an auction, EC will give you something anyway as a consolation prize."

* * *

><p>Mary stared at the sheet of paper, her face going pale as she read. "Percy, I never heard her speak a word."<p>

"Well, that code was assigned to her, and that code was used, and no one's seen her."

Ben took the paper back. "So it's something we can't sit on."

"Of course not," Mary said quickly. "Matthew? Alastair?"

The two men looked at each other and nodded. "Alix Westfield is a missing person. We have information. There's no discussion or argument against bringing in the police." Alastair looked to Ben. "Any idea if they'll splash this across the front pages right away?"

Ben shrugged. "It depends on what other evidence and information they've kept from the public. I can't make any promises. I can only say we can't withhold it any longer."

Matthew nodded grimly. "Ben, keep us posted. Mary, I'll need you to talk to the PR team and get them prepared."

"We discovered this information during an unrelated internal investigation and turned it over to the proper authorities? That sort of prepared?'

"Yes," he said. "And that's all we're saying at the moment."

* * *

><p>They did not even need to say that, it turned out. Ben and Percy met with investigators who said little, but did leave Ben with the impression that they were keeping most of this under wraps, and Monday stretched into Tuesday and Wednesday without any word.<p>

Mary wondered at their luck, but did not dwell on it. She was too wound up in the eurozone mess and its effects to notice much else, but she was beginning to worry about _them, _how the inability to catch a moment alone was starting to cause physical pain. She missed him and he was thirty yards away and she couldn't just...

She stood up. "Greg, is Mr. Crawley in his office?"

"Yes," he called back. "Want me to say you're coming over?"

"Yes, please," she replied.

He messaged Aurelie, but there was no response, and he remembered she had her first interview for the analyst position.

"Matthew, don't you wish this was Italy and we could just send police to raid Moody's if we... oh, good God. I'm sorry."

The blonde woman stood up slowly and looked Mary up and down. "Hello, Mary," she said. "You probably don't remember me."

"Of course I do." Mary smiled as she extended her hand. "Hello, Alice. It's been a long time."

"You haven't changed." It was fraught with meaning, and Mary refrained from pointing out that Alice had indeed changed from that flawless little blonde... _piece, _as Granny Violet was wont to call any woman she had disliked. She was pregnant, but looked miserable about it, and Mary felt guilty about her first less-than-charitable thoughts.

"And here I was thinking I'd grown up." Mary smiled over at Matthew. "I'll leave you two. We can talk later, Matthew."

Alice caught her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm being utterly wretched to everyone, which probably means I haven't changed either." Her eyes met Mary's, pleadingly. "Stay. We can talk."

"I'm afraid I haven't got time for a chat here," she said. "Matthew?"

"We'll catch up some other time," he said. "Old school memories and such. Mary, I'll message you about that Moody's problem."

"Yes, of course," she said. "It was lovely to see you again, Alice." She allowed herself a brief glance at Matthew, who was already typing a message on a phone _their phone_ she thought, and she felt it vibrate gently inside her jacket pocket. She waited until she was inside her office again before slipping it out. _Dinner tonight at my place? Alice is here for a meeting and she's not driving back until after dinner. We can explain to her then, and don't take that earlier bit personally. Honestly, she's just alternately biting off my head and then apologizing for it. _

_Moody,_ she typed back with a grin. _I don't know where you live._

* * *

><p>She took a taxi and made herself laugh by checking out every other car on the narrow street as she passed. <em>Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I'm not being followed<em>, she thought as she paid the driver, and then realized any chance at subterfuge was shot because Matthew was waiting at the door.

"I've just explained why we couldn't speak at work about it," he said.

"And?"

"It's horrid!" Alice's voice came down the stairs. "It's criminal."

"Yes," Matthew called as they climbed up to his flat. "It is criminal. And we're taking care of it."

"Oh, Mary." And Mary was utterly shocked as Alice wrapped her arms around her. "I'm sorry. How awful for you."

"It could be worse," she said wryly. "It was worse before Matthew got here."

Matthew busied himself in the kitchen, and Alice looked longingly at Mary's drink. "May I smell it? I know that seems odd, but..."

"Of course." Mary smiled as Alice sniffed at the glass and sadly handed it back. "How much longer?"

"Three months," she said. "And I'm thrilled, truly, but sometimes..."

"Stinky cheese and booze is all you want," Mary said.

Alice grinned and looked over at Matthew. "He seems very happy. I'm glad. I worry I took up too much of his time."

"He doesn't think that," Mary said firmly.

"How.. oh." Alice looked chastened. "Matthew said you.. with your sisters, too."

"Yes," Mary said.

"I do want us to be friends. I'm sorry about earlier, I'm sorry about all of it. I only want him to be happy."

"I do, too." She squeezed Alice's hand. "All of it."

* * *

><p>Mary was glad it had been friendly, but was relieved to see Alice leave, a feeling shared by Matthew who heaved a huge sigh as he came back up the stairs. "I love her so very much, but she is exhausting. At least that's over with. Most of the parties know."<p>

"I can't tell Sybil. It's not fair to her to have to sit on information."

"She's very understanding."

"No, she's just very Sybil. There's right and wrong, black and white, and then there's motive. She'll know why I didn't tell her." She put her hand on his face. "Why are we talking about sisters?"

"We can stop."

"We should." Her head came to a rest just under his chin. "Finally," she whispered.

"What?"

"On home soil. You and me."

He kissed her, her breath already fast. "What is with everyone's bursts of patriotism?"

Fingers began fighting buttons and zippers, and she smiled against his mouth. "Rule Brittania."

_A month, too long. My birthday_ were the last coherent thoughts Matthew had.

_This bed is amazing_ was Mary's first discernible thought some time later, as she curled closer to Matthew, and she grinned at what else was amazing. She kissed the closest thing to her, which turned out to be his collarbone. "Don't make me leave," she murmured and his arms tightened around her.

"Don't go."

"Have you made a decision about Centerbank?"

He was quiet for a moment, his mouth dragging back and forth across her forehead. "I can't go now," he finally said. "Not until they settle this Alix Westfield case, or at least take it off our doorstep. It looks like I'm running from something and I'm not leaving you with that mess. Ben thinks the police will say something next week."

She shuddered. "But we don't know how long that will take."

"No," he agreed. "It's the perception we have to be worried about."

"Always the look of the thing," she muttered before she leaned up to kiss him fiercely, her hands in his hair.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, <em>give?<em>"

Felix handed him the square brown package. "She said it was a thank you for being honest about that last painting. Will you at least do me the courtesy of not telling people it was a gift?"

"I'd like to thank her in person." Ben took it carefully and placed it on his desk.

Felix snorted and picked up his bag. "That's not going to happen. Wait until after I've left to open it please. I don't want to start pricing the thing in my mind."

"Greedy."

"That's what she said. I'll see you tomorrow."

It was not a sketch as he'd thought it might be, but a collage, and he placed it reverently on the table. The focal point, appropriately enough, was an eye, which he recognized as his own, enclosed inside a magnifying glass rimmed with what looked like a law journal's text, peering down at a trail of crumbs meandering off the page, crumbs which turned out to be torn bits of a photo of a painting. He could not tell which one, but as he propped the work up on a small old easel, he had a feeling he was supposed to.

"Thank you," he said to no one at all.

* * *

><p>The closing ceremony was already raucous, with everyone on their feet in joy and frank relief at the Games' success. She looked over at Alastair, who had gamely insisted on coming even though he had been tired all week and she felt a prickle of guilt at his drawn face. "He should take a holiday," she murmured to Matthew, careful to keep her shoulders from turning toward his after a lecture from Jemma on body language.<p>

"I tried to tell him that weeks ago. He won't. And Percy just told him the story breaks tomorrow. A full timeline of Alix Westfield's whereabouts before her disappearance."

"And?"

Matthew shrugged. "The call wasn't the last time she was seen or heard from. So it may just be a bump in the road."

Mary nodded distractedly and knelt next to Alastair. "Tired?" she asked.

"Oh, no," he said, and his voice was thick. "I can't leave until Marina gets back."

She went cold and looked at Matthew. "Alastair, Marina's not here."

Alastair smiled at something past her shoulder, a smile she had never seen from him, before slumping forward in his chair.

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Well, we had a storm and an election and a broken finger and I have no more excuses. Thank you all for your patience and your gentle demands. The soundtrack is "Childhood," from The Space Between_ Us.

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 22?**

"Mary?"

She flinched at the touch on her arm.

"Mary, I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could say or do." His voice was far away, and she heard him say the same thing to Granny Violet and she wondered at how she was able to compartmentalize even this, that she could stifle her instinct, her _need_ to be held by him at this moment. She could recall the scent of his neck, feel his arms around her, know what it would be like and yet she did nothing beyond nod to him, even after he asked them all if they would allow him to speak to the now-clamoring press outside.

"Alastair adored him," Violet said, her voice as small as a child's.

There was no response possible to that, and she was relieved when her mobile buzzed, and she looked at the text from Eddie. **I'm so sorry. I know how much you loved him.**

Her eyes smarted. She had loved Alastair, loved him like a father, from a very young age. He had been there when her mother died and beyond, the man she could count on for every kind of advice when her own father had been...

_Charlotte's not here._

Rob was alone, clenching his fists as he always did when he was angry or upset, and she shocked herself by going and sitting next to him. "Papa?"

"Oh, it's Papa again." His voice was cold and she very nearly stood up and walked away.

"Sybil says indiscriminate pettiness is beneath me. I'm not sure she's right."

The laugh was short and it was followed by an incomprehensible sound, something of a sob. "Sybil and her words."

"Words matter," Mary replied softly.

"Yes, they do."

They said nothing more. He did not take her hand, nor did she pat him on the shoulder. After a minute, he stood and walked to Granny Violet's side, and she told herself not to think of him again.

* * *

><p>She had no idea how she'd gotten home.<p>

_I'll take care of it._

She should be the one doing that for Alastair, not standing just inside her door, key still in hand. She was his...

_I'll take care of it. Go home and sleep._

Matthew had put her in a car, put all of them in cars, save James, who was accompanying the body to York, where his family was from and where they were all buried.

_Cold. He'll be cold. _

"A ticking time bomb," she said to the air, the darkness. "There was nothing they could do."

Eddie materialized, a mug of tea thick with Scotch in her hand, and Mary let herself be led into the kitchen.

She had known, of course, faster than anyone in that box, knew even as Percy and James begged Alastair to wake up, their voices like those of boys. Matthew's eyes had met hers over the head of the young paramedic who was doing his best, but they both knew the efforts were for naught.

Somehow, they had all gotten to A&E, somehow they had gathered in that too-bright room, and so she did not have to be the one to break it to the family. The nice young doctors who had tried far longer than they should were gentle about it, kind and patient as James kept asking question after question. _We won't know if it was his heart or a stroke until after the autopsy. We never had a chance, it was instantaneous. _

It fell to Holly to explain things to Rob when he arrived moments after that, grey-faced and red-eyed. Mary did not look at him, noting only that he sank into a plastic chair, and that his hands shook as they had...

_His hands shook as they lit the cigarette. She had never seen him smoke. "Maman is sick, you know, my darling girl. Very sick. Your sisters don't know how bad it is and we can't let them worry. They'll only worry your Maman if they worry."_

_She nodded and agreed, because it was what she always did with Papa, because he trusted her.. my eldest my brightest my girl my girl my girl._

**You should go be with him.**

Mary's head jerked up. "James is going to York with him."

**Not him. **

She couldn't, of course, not in London, not tonight, not when there were already reporters swarming the headquarters, calling, asking questions. Dany had left a dozen texts and messages according to Greg, who had been fielding most of the inquiries along with Aurelie. "I can't," she said softly.

Eddie poured her another mug of tea and brushed her lips across her sister's cheek before miming a telephone call and strolling into her studio.

"I can't," she said again into the darkness, and felt for her mobile.

* * *

><p>He was grateful for Aurelie, but never more so then when there were lists of things to be done. She had taken over within minutes at the hospital, organizing the public relations responses, contacting James' assistant to aid in the funeral plans, and, in a gesture that shocked Matthew, fetched tea herself for Mary, who had responded with a smile so grateful it made him want to cry.<p>

_Alastair._

He sat in the first chair inside his door, a vise around his head and he let out a shuddering breath. No warning, nothing to think this would happen. He should be used to this by now, but he was not prepared, and as he rubbed his eyes, he wished for Mary, and felt the pain ebb as Radiohead throbbed from his pocket.

"Are you all right?" he began, and Mary shushed him, her breath hitching.

"Don't," she said. "Not now."

"Do you need anything?"

"You," she said. "But that's not going to happen. Are you going in tomorrow?"

"For planning. And I think we ought to say something to the whole company. There's the stockholder thing next Monday, too. I don't think we ought to push it back. Has James given you a likely date for the funeral?"

"Thursday," she said. "And no, don't push it back. It looks like disarray if we do, no matter what happened today."

"That's what I said to Aurelie. She did not agree."

Mary laughed. "I can only imagine being on the other end of that disapproving stare."

"Mary..."

"Shh... I can take anything right now, but not.. Tell me jokes."

"I wish you were here."

She sighed. "I wish we were both anywhere but here."

* * *

><p>The financial papers split their headlines, the glee over the successful Games above the fold tempered by the loss of a giant below the fold. It had happened so late that most of the coverage was still only online, and Greg brushed at his eyes as he read the <em>Times<em> obituary's recounting of the accident that killed Alastair's wife Helene and their nine-year-old daughter Marina in 1968. He knew the story, had heard it from Alastair's own mouth some years ago, and yet...

"Are you all right?" Aurelie placed a cup of steaming _cafe au lait_ in front of him and sat down.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you."

"He was a good man," she said. "I didn't know he meant that much to you."

Greg shrugged. "I've known him since I started here, and when everyone turned against Mary, he did not. Loyalty matters."

She nodded and sipped at her own cup. "He was loyal in all things. His wife, for starters."

"For some, there's only one." Greg's hand shook as he lifted the cup, and he put it down rather than try to get it to his mouth.

"It's that way for you?" she said softly.

He flinched. "It seems that way."

There wasn't a way to respond that wasn't painful, and she let it go. "Is she coming in this morning?"

"Yes," he replied, and this time the cup reached his mouth.

* * *

><p>It was a sea of black, the formal mourning in honour of the man whose strict adherence to rules had marked the rebirth of the firm, and Mary's hand shook slightly as she smoothed the notes in front of her. "Alastair Martin was a mentor, a colleague, and an inspiration, but most of all he was a friend for as long as I can remember. He taught me many things, including the shortest route from here to the King's Arms." She grinned at the shout of laughter. "He also taught me that any decent pub must mention a body part and a member of the royal family." The laughter began to roll. "And if you ever heard his speech about modern management techniques, you know the response to anyone who ever tells you 'there's no I in team.'" The laugh became applause, and she smiled to see those who knew the joke sharing it with the others. "We'll miss him," she said, and the room grew quiet again. "But he'd want you to smile."<p>

* * *

><p>"I don't know the speech," Matthew said as the lift doors shut.<p>

"What speech?" Mary asked. "Oh, the speech." Her eyes sparkled. "Greg, will you be a management consultant?"

Greg folded his arms. "Remember, there's no I in team."

"And there's no I in 'fuck off.'" Mary replied.

"Alastair said that?" Matthew asked.

"Yes," she said with a smile. "It was years ago during a board meeting, and it ended up in the minutes that went out to the entire company. He hated jargon or slogans or anything that wasn't straightforward and honest."

"Just do your damn job," Greg said. "And he did."

Mary bit at her lip, the tears splashing down her face, and it was Greg who put his arms around her and produced a tissue, but not before he noticed Matthew's hands had reached for her first, and not before he realized Aurelie had noticed exactly the same thing.

* * *

><p>"You drove?" Sybil slipped her hand into Mary's. "Did Jemma come up? I didn't see her."<p>

"Sick baby," Mary replied, her voice ragged. "The column was lovely, by the way."

Sybil shrugged. "I don't think I did him justice. No one could." She shaded her eyes and watched the line of black cars begin to pull away.

"Let's drive over to the house," Felix said. "We haven't seen it in a long time. At least I haven't. Percy?"

Percy smiled. "Holly's never seen it." Mary's heart thumped as Matthew joined them. "Matthew, we're driving over to Downton. Any interest in seeing the old place?"

He glanced at Mary's face for any sign of what he should do, but she did not look at him.

"You should," Sybil said. "Matthew 2.0 should see what 1.0 built."

"It's a pretty pile and we can eat in the village," Percy added.

"It's not a pile," Mary said. "It's lovely. We can take my car. You can send your car back on to London." At his pause, she added. "It's less than an hour away."

* * *

><p>"He's going with them to see the old house," Aurelie whispered as she took Greg's arm. "I'm heading back in his car. Need a lift?"<p>

"Yes," he said. "Save me from having to talk to Percy's assistant." He looked at the group with a frown on his face.

"What is it?"

"Not sure," he replied.

* * *

><p>Mary handed him the keys as Percy sped off. "Will you?"<p>

"You'll let me?" He looked at the Shelby.

"Somebody has to have some fun today," she replied.

She was quiet as he slipped into traffic, testing the clutch and the accelerator as he shifted. "Tell me where to go," he said as he merged onto the motorway.

"North when you get to the A1," she murmured, and he felt her hand rest on his. Without taking his eyes from the road, he lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, before letting their hands twine together as they had so many weeks ago, and she let out a long sigh. "I've missed you."

"I had hoped to get you to myself this week before the stockholders' meeting," he said. "But with Alastair gone, the reasons to discuss next steps will have to be put aside."

She turned to look at him. "So you are leaving?"

"I was planning on laying the groundwork for leaving." Matthew's eyes did not leave the road. "That's impossible now. At least until New Year's."

"We never told him," she said. "I wanted to. I wish we had." She rubbed her eyes. "I wanted him to know."

He kissed her hand again and let his thumb dance with hers until he turned north, and she pointed him to the junction, and then to a long drive lined with trees. "It starts here," she said. "But there are miles yet to go. Shall we put the top down?"

It took only a few minutes, and soon they were flying along the narrow road. They passed a small stone cottage, and she shivered. "Cold?" he asked.

"No." She rubbed her eyes again, and looked up at the sky. "It's... I don't believe in ghosts."

He waited. "But?"

"It's just..." She indicated another turn, into a copse so thick it muffled the engine. "I can't help but think of who was here before us." She swiped at her eyes. "And it's where Eddie..."

"We don't have to go."

"No," she said. "I want to see it. I need to see it. Christ, I sound like a five-year-old today."

The road curved again, the trees disappearing, and she leaned forward to see it as appeared. "That's home," she said, and he looked to see stone and towers rising from grass and clay, the symmetry so soothing, he felt his breath slow as he looked at it. He saw her smile, saw a flicker of joy that had been missing for days, and it made him happy.

"Home," he repeated.

The rest were waiting in the drive, Holly staring up at the building in wonder. "Lead the way," Percy said as Mary stepped out of the car. The silver-haired woman who opened the door gave Matthew a curious stare before Mary introduced him, and he was confronted in the great hall by not one, but two portraits that gave him pause. "The photographs are much, much worse," Percy muttered. "Holly, come see the music room."

Mary showed him the library, her great-grandfather's favourite place in the house, and opened the desk to show him the secret drawer she'd discovered as a child that still held a small toy dog and a photograph of Lady Mary with a blond baby boy. "Your grandfather?" Matthew asked, and she shook her head.

"Reggie." She opened the doors to the terrace and walked outside. "I wonder how different things would have been for them had he survived the war. For everyone."

He followed her out and they stood for a moment, surveying the lawn and folly, and she pointed to an enormous cedar. "There," she said.

"He crashed into that?"

She strode across the grass, stopping when she could see the scars, the chunks of wood gone from the base. "And yet it still lives," she mused.

"So does she," he replied. He sat on the bench and stared up into the branches.

Mary leaned against the tree. "New Year's?"

"Yes."

She watched him as she spoke. "And what then?"

"I take you to dinner to celebrate my new position."

"I might have other plans."

His eyes darkened and desire ran through her like a shock. "Change them."

They were alone, and yet not, and she could not do what she wanted to do. "New Year's Eve," she said. "Anywhere you like."

"My bed," he replied.

The sun moved for a few minutes, changing the shadows, and they did not look at each other, until a flash of light by the doors told them someone else was outside.

"Why doesn't anyone live here anymore?"

"Inconvenient," she replied. "And it was always her house. Lady Mary's, I mean. My grandfather didn't love it as she did, and my father... Charlotte prefers London." She shivered again. "What else would you like to see?"

"Upstairs?" he asked, and she took him up the staircase to see the endless bedrooms, the nursery where she had slept as a child, and the red room she always chose to stay in now. She told him the stories behind a dozen of the very old paintings, and showed him the interior of a wardrobe that Eddie had carved with a found pocketknife at age ten, a stick figure set of three little girls with big eyes and waving hands. They found Sybil and Holly wandering in the old servants' rooms, and met Felix and Percy in the billiards room, where they played a few games of snooker before collectively deciding they were starving. "Pub?" Percy proposed, and they walked into the village, to a place with a stick and noose over the door.

"Doesn't this violate Alastair's rule?" Matthew asked as the pints arrived.

"You mean the name?" Felix nodded. "Yes, but 'The Condemned Man' is special. It is also Alastair-approved."

They ate, talking only of Alastair or the house, Holly asking questions until the plates were cleared and Sybil stood up, whispered something in Felix's ear and led Mary out. Matthew watched as they crossed the road and walked up into the churchyard. "Their mother," Felix said. "Give them a few minutes."

* * *

><p>Mary sent Eddie a text, which came back as a photograph of a sketch <strong>to show Maman<strong>_**, **_it read, and she did, propping the phone up against the stone. Sybil prayed briefly in French, and they sat silently after that, hand in hand. Mary looked across the path at the slab of granite marking the grave of their great-grandparents and Sybil felt her flinch. "Odd to think another Matthew Crawley and Mary Crawley are here," she said. "I like him, by the way."

"Matthew?"

"Yes," Sybil said with a smile. "When did you start sleeping with him?"

It was too fast and too direct to deny. "No wonder you're good at your job," she replied. "What gave us away?"

"You didn't thank him when he held the door." Sybil leaned back on the grass. "You tried too hard not to look at him. He took the seat next to yours without permission."

"Enough," Mary sighed.

"And you let him drive the Shelby," Sybil finished. "But I still didn't know until you just confirmed it."

"You are a loathsome individual." Mary stood up. "I can't believe I didn't trade you for madeleines when I had the chance. That nice woman in the shop said I could have a whole tray for you."

"You were holding out for macarons," Sybil said. "And I meant it. I like him. Just be careful."

"I thought we were."

"Do you love him?"

"Sybil..."

"Shocking, isn't it? That I'm such a romantic?"

"Is this why you thought he ought to come see the house?"

"I needed to test my theory," Sybil grinned. "Do you love him?"

"I do," Mary said.

"Good," Sybil said as she knocked the grass from her skirt. "You deserve it."

"Deserve what?" Felix asked as the others came up the path.

"Everything she gets," Sybil responded. "Come on, let's visit Lavinia."

"Lavinia?" Matthew asked.

"Matthew Crawley's first fiancee," Mary murmured. "Died of Spanish flu, and for some strange reason she's buried here. Our deepest secrets are exchanged only when we've sworn on her grave." She watched as the others walked toward a plot down the hill. "Maman shouldn't be buried here either. She belongs in France."

They stood for a moment, looking at the script on stone. "Sybil knows," she whispered. "You and I need to watch ourselves. She's abnormally observant, but..." She smiled up at him. "She likes you."

They wandered to Lavinia's grave, and only Matthew knew what it meant when Sybil quirked an eyebrow at her sister and raised her right hand.

* * *

><p>They had done all they could that week. The stock had stayed up, its steadiness in price and in headlines a tribute to the company at large and not just her work, or John's, or Matthew's. Every person in Crawley Martin Thorpe had stepped forward and up that week to ensure whatever transition to come would be a smooth one. Eddie had been the only one to ask her directly who would take over, and she did not have an answer. Matthew had only said during a direct reports meeting that they would take the next steps at the stockholders meeting on Monday, and she had not questioned it further. They had been cautious with each other that day, careful to thank and acknowledge, and she hoped again that it was only Sybil's journalist's eye that had noticed.<p>

The waning light turned to dark as the train entered the Chunnel. Downton had not been enough. It had not filled the void or soothed the ache as it had so many times before. Her sisters could not say or do anything that would shake this sensation, this feeling she was once again seventeen, powerless, and lost.

_You must brave the storm._

Alastair's words that morning so long ago at Crawley House fluttered into her consciousness. She could hear his voice as he put the tea in front of her, his sweater around her shoulders. _Alone?_

_It's how you know you can and will survive._

He had survived and so would she. Over and over again she had braved storms, faced things alone, and always Alastair had been in her corner, silent but _there, _and now this hole left by his absence was impossible to fill. Paris, Greg had suggested that morning, and she could find no reason to stay in London that weekend, and so she had gone straight to the station without packing a bag.

_Alone._

It was nearly midnight by the time the taxi turned onto Place St. Sulpice, and she stood motionless on the corner as the driver sped away. The fountain splashed behind her, the cafe was already shut up for summer, and the few people wandering the streets were quiet. It was all as it should be and yet...

No one ever parked a motorbike there. No one ever leaned against it as if waiting for someone in this square. No one ever watched each car as it went by, searched each face as if looking for someone, and no one had ever looked at her like that in this city.

_Not alone, never again,_ she thought as she ran into Matthew's arms.

**TBC**


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: The soundtrack to this chapter is "Videotape" by Radiohead._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 23?**

It wasn't real, he wasn't real, his hand in hers as she led him up the stairs and used old keys to unlock three bolts. He followed her inside and put down the slim knapsack _the same one he carried that first day_ and he smiled down at her. He said something as he shed his jacket, but she didn't hear it, her fingers stroking across his mouth before she kissed him to make him real in this place that was hers alone. "No one," she whispered against his mouth. "Ever. Only you."

He knew what she meant as her hands trailed down his chest, the buttons loose with barely a touch and the drug of her skin on his made him forget all the things he meant to say _I flew in, no one knows, mobile's forwarded, GPS off, we have two whole days. Two... _

She pressed her forehead to his as she breathed, and then slipped from his arms. She opened a window, letting the dim light of the square fall across her, and then he could not stop himself from pulling her back, lifting her up as her legs wrapped around him. "Are you hungry, Matthew?" she murmured against his ear.

His answer was against her throat, his tongue stroking the curve of bone at its base. Each time it was different, each touch a shift in feeling, and this time it was neither desperate nor greedy, neither gentle nor rough. It was known and yet unexpected what each moment brought, skin in hands, the taste of the other, familiar scents and sensations burning themselves into memory _there again love yes now._

* * *

><p>"Are you still hungry?"<p>

He laughed. "A little," he said. "A lot."

The kitchen was small. "Typical Parisian," she pointed out as she fetched eggs and pancetta from the small refrigerator. "We laugh at you English and Americans who think you need so much space to make your fried foods."

"That's fried," he pointed out as she started the pancetta and a pot of water to boil, and he was rewarded with an awful glare.

"Sautéed," she said. "And we invented it."

"What's this _we_?" He picked through the bottles on the wine rack, holding up various ones until he got a nod. "_Tu es anglais, mon amour._"

She grinned and handed him the cheese grater. "Here. Reward for your cheesy French."

He shredded the parmigiano and watched as she separated the eggs. "Who shops for you in August?"

She isolated the yolks and ground fresh black pepper into the whites. "Aimee. She lives in Paris now that Philippe is gone. She..." Her hands slowed and she put down the grinder. "She shops as if I'm my mother. This is something she made." She did not continue with _for my father._

"When did your mother live here?"

"This was where she grew up. Here and the farm. They owned the floor above as well, but my mother sold it when they died. I've tried to get it back, but..." She shrugged. "This was enough for her."

"Downton must have annoyed her." Her eyebrow flicked up. "The size."

"She understood it. It fit her belief that home mattered, and she knew how much it mattered to Lady Mary. They understood each other. I wish I'd known her. Pour me a drink."

He knew that was the end of the conversation, and so he found two glasses and watched as the dish came together, as she combined the cheese and egg white with the hot pasta and pancetta, divided it onto two warm plates, and, with a smile, made a nest in each for the raw yolk. "Mix it yourself," she said.

They ate in the window seat, the delicate breeze picking up the cool of the fountain. He washed the dishes silently, her head against his back, and this time she was still hungry, so she was the one to take him to her bed, to take her time with him until he could wait no longer.

* * *

><p>"Eddie?" Sybil called. "We're here."<p>

The clatter drew them to the kitchen. "Mary's going to kill you," Felix said with a grin. "And you'll have to beg either of us to help clean up."

Eddie smiled back as she put another dish in the sink. **You'll do anything for pancakes.**

"True," Felix said, and popped open the champagne. "Where is Mary?"

**Paris. Something about needing to breathe.**

"Damn," Sybil muttered. "Well, she'll have to hear it later. I refuse to keep it secret any longer. You're going to be an aunt."

**You got Felix pregnant?**

"If only." Sybil kissed Eddie on the cheek and took the spoon from her.

"I thought you were all right with this."

"I'm more than all right with it. I just wish you had the two a.m sickness." At Eddie's concerned pat, she shrugged. "It's only around two. Otherwise, I am a model of health and feminine allure." She squealed. "You made streaky bacon!"

"Alluring," Felix said. "Eddie, I have something for you." He drew a small envelope out of his pocket. "I will trade it for coffee."

* * *

><p>Matthew did not want to move. He wondered at what they must look like, his head nestled on her breast, sheets somewhere around their ankles, the morning sun already warming bare skin.<p>

"Stop it," she muttered as she began to stretch. "Stop smiling like that."

"How do you...?"

"I can feel it," she said again as she pushed him onto his back. Her hips trapped his and it was her head on his chest now, chin digging into his rib as she looked up at him, eyes dark and sad.

"Mary?"

"There's this moment," she began. "I wake up, and all is as it should be. This." Her breath and lips together on his skin made him shiver. "Then I remember it isn't and I don't know when it will be."

"Soon," he replied. "I promise."

Her mouth stilled. "You can't promise anything. You know that."

He started to protest, but stopped, and she kissed him before rolling away and standing up. "Mary?"

"Yes?"

"Don't be defeatist."

She tilted her head and he drank in the sight of her, naked above him. "Matthew, something's got to give here."

"There's Centerbank." He held out his hand and she took it, but moved no closer.

"Sooner rather than later?"

"God knows they need my help."

She nodded, and leaned down for a quick kiss. "Make coffee? I'm going to shower."

"You have coffee here?"

"I told you," she threw over her shoulder as she walked down the hall. "She shops like I'm my mother. Trust me, there's coffee."

* * *

><p>The card inside was thick, <em>antique<em>, she noted, and she stroked its deckled edge in admiration before turning her attention to the lettering upon it. His handwriting was bold and sharp, and the artist in her saw the skill before she read the words.

_Caravaggio's "Saint Matthew and the Angel." Destroyed in Berlin in 1945. And Caravaggio's "Nativity with Saint Francis and Saint Lawrence." Stolen in 1969. Am I correct? Do tell me, this was ridiculously fun to track down. _

_And thank you. It's the best consolation prize ever. _

_-Ben_

She pinned the card to her wall and stared at it before taking a small square of canvas and an oil crayon over to her work table. _YES_, she scrawled on it and placed it in the envelope in which the card had come.

"Eddie!" Sybil called. "I'm going to eat the bacon if you don't get back in here!"

* * *

><p>"<em>Cafe au lait," <em>he said as he placed it in front of her. "How old is that pot?"

"Probably early seventies." She sipped the coffee and flicked her eyebrows skyward. "Well done. It just spits at me. Possibly why I became so attached to tea."

He sat down with a cup of straight espresso and pulled her into his lap. "What shall we do today?"

"Nothing?"

"Not nothing." He dragged his nose over her chin. "Something. A museum. A bistro. Wine. Sun. Anything. As if we can." At her sigh, he tightened his arm around her. "Come Monday, things will change. For the better, I hope. But now, at least today, let's not talk about it. Any of it. Tomorrow, we need to talk about Alix Westfield and Patrick and all the ways that call can still..." He held her as she shuddered. "Let it go today."

* * *

><p><strong>Let us go and make our visit.<strong>

"Why the code?" Aurelie slid up behind him in line at Prufrock and accepted the cup he offered. "That's Bond level."

Greg didn't smile as he paid for the two coffees, and he didn't speak until they were seated in a corner. "Where is he?"

"Matthew? I don't know. He left town yesterday and said phone only in an emergency. When he does that, it's usually his sister. Why?"

"I think he's with Mary." He stirred the coffee twice, put down the spoon, and picked it back up to stir it again. "Tell me he's at his sister's."

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters. Especially now."

She put her hand on his and took the spoon away. "Do you think there's something going on between them?"

"I'm afraid there is." He drank half, and hit the saucer a little too hard on the way down. "Monday it goes down. All of it. There's no way the board doesn't make her CEO and then when it comes out..." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "That she's been sleeping with the chairman? Doesn't matter that she deserves it."

She was silent.

"Do you know? Aurelie?"

She took a long sip of the coffee and put it down carefully. "I know several things, Greg. Number one, considering the fact they turned the company around, does it truly matter what they did outside of the office? And no, this is not the Frenchwoman speaking about your country's peculiar obsession with sexual activity, or this country's inability to even speak about it. Number two, why is it always on the woman? Why is it only how she will look, never how he will look?"

"I don't just mean her," he stammered.

"Yes, you do," she hissed. "If you are looking at this situation, you are always thinking of how the woman looks."

"So are you," he retorted. "You can't tell me you don't judge her. Both of them."

"I can't," she said. "I thought I would, but I didn't."

"Didn't? You knew?"

"I saw her leave his room in Berlin and I thought... nothing. At first I was disappointed, but then I realized that was my own ego. I hated not knowing. Now that I know." Her lips twitched. "Number three, and this is vault, you understand. Vault."

He nodded.

"He is going to Centerbank. At some point in the next few weeks, an announcement will be made and he will leave. I imagine a few weeks after that, we will begin to see them at restaurants and events around town and people will talk about what might have been going on, but eventually people will find another shiny object to chase and it will all be forgotten."

He caught her arm as she stood up. "What will you do?"

"Hopefully take the operations analyst job."

"You wouldn't follow him?"

She raised a single eyebrow. "I want to work for Mary Crawley."

"You want to work for Mary?"

Aurelie sat back down. "Yes. My interview went well and I'm already on the second round. I know you're not."

He shrugged. "I didn't go for it."

"What?"

"I went for the corporate culture leader job." He gave her a lopsided grin. "I decided fighting you wasn't worth it."

"So you'll go around and play cheerleader?"

"I do that anyway." He pushed the cup away and folded his arms. "It's a lot of travel, but I like travel." They stared at one another. "I can't believe you knew."

Aurelie could feel the shift between them. He looked away, and she knew it for what it was, the first break in the easy friendship. "Truth is hard," she muttered. "And one more thing." When he didn't respond, she plowed ahead. "What if they love each other? Shouldn't that count?"

His eyes flicked to hers.

"You of all people should know that it counts for a lot," she said.

* * *

><p>"I'm telling you, he painted a light saber in that picture." He grinned. "That's the worst museum I've ever seen."<p>

"It's not a terrible museum." She led him down another street and pulled him inside a small bistro. After a quick negotiation, the smiling proprietor put them at a small corner table. "It's a lovely museum with some relatively terrible paintings."

"Relatively?"

"I can't paint that well. Eddie loved it. She wanted to buy it when she was little."

"The whole thing? Aperitif?"

She nodded. "The light is so beautiful. Even when she was that young she saw things like that." He ordered two Noilly-Prats and she twined her fingers into his when the waiter left. "She wanted a studio like that, two floors, with a spiral staircase. I couldn't give her that, but..."

"She could probably buy it herself now."

"I doubt the French government would approve." The drinks arrived, and after a heated back and forth in French over the merits of a heavier entree versus the Paris-Brest for dessert, they ordered and her hands found his again. They talked of food and paintings, places and names, anything but what they were both really thinking about.

* * *

><p>"No," Felix said. "Our child will not have a mural painted by your sister. She'll warp our daughter."<p>

"Son," Sybil said with a grin. "Come on. She can paint little whales and fish and anchors."

"She'll paint Moby Dick with a Marxist slant." Felix leaned over and kissed her as he started the car.

"What was in the envelope you gave her?"

He shrugged. "A thank-you from Ben Macmillan. She's sending something back."

Sybil frowned. "What's he after?"

"Don't start."

"You weren't there." It was the cold voice, and he knew to stop as he always had when it came to the Crawley women.

* * *

><p>They watched a film and ate olives and cheese and bread, a bottle of wine between them, curled up on the long sofa, and for a night, they pretended this was real. He wanted it to be so, the tall windows, the sounds of the square, and the old flat strangely comforting, like the film they were watching. She knew it by heart, and he had seen it enough to know what was coming, and even so the moment of heartbreak was difficult to watch, and they missed the ending for their own.<p>

"Mary?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you asleep?"

"Yes?"

He laughed. "I love you."

"I love you. Shh."

He kissed the top of her head. "I mean it. I love you."

"I mean it. Shh."

A full minute passed. She could feel him shaking, and she reached for the light. "What's this about?"

"Marry me?"

_I'm naked,_ she thought. _And a bit drunk. _"Matthew..."

"Marry me," he repeated, and this time it was not a question. "Think about it. Or don't. Tell me now, or tell me sometime, but.."

She kissed him before her lips went to his ear. "You have to be finished at Crawley Martin Thorpe. Properly, before we can even think about that."

He nodded, and she told him again how much she loved him, with heat and breath and touch, until they both slept.

* * *

><p>They ate breakfast over morning papers on iPads, passing articles back and forth until she put away the last dish, turned on the tea kettle, and sat in front of him. "Alix," she said.<p>

"Last seen at her club the evening after the phone call," he read from the tablet. "Said something about having made a mistake, her friends report."

"Friends?"

"Both of them tell the same story. Ben says they were interviewed separately. She had a single drug arrest ten years before she disappeared, but otherwise there was nothing to indicate criminal connections. Her phone records showed no suspicious activity, and her phone was found in her flat after she was reported missing, along with her identification and credit cards. She had taken out several thousand pounds in cash over the past weeks and since there was no sign of violence..." He shrugged. "If she knew she was going to be caught, she may have just become someone else. She would have turned out worse than the London Whale."

"Just disappear?"

"Her trades destroyed an entire firm. A whole new identity, maybe a quiet life somewhere..."

"Is that what you'd do?"

"I'd like a quiet life right now." His eyes darkened as he looked at her, and she kissed him. "Mary, is it possible Patrick knows what happened to her? Since she could be the only one to implicate Crawley Martin Thorpe?"

"Yes," she said. "He's clever enough to figure out how to hide. So what do we do about it?"

"Watch him, I suppose." He poured more coffee from the old moka pot and drank it quickly. "So tomorrow. The stockholders will want a smooth transition and the board will want to ensure that. There's only Patrick now who could cause a problem."

She nodded. "And you're assuming the board will choose me to take over for Alastair?"

"I know they will." He grinned at her. "And then I can walk away safely knowing I've left it in good hands."

"And after that?"

"It's your problem."

"Thanks." She stood up, laughing, and he pulled her down into his lap.

"And then something else is our problem." His head found its home in the crook of her neck, and once again, she felt that all was right with her world.

He left at noon. "I have to put the bike back," he said with a smile. "It's Ben's."

"He keeps a motorcycle in Paris?"

"Some people keep flats. He keeps transportation." He kissed her again in the hall. "I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. Be safe."

"You too." She threw her arms around his neck. "I do love you so terribly much."

"I know."

She held him closer, a wave of irrational fear, a new thing, striking deep inside. "I..."

"What?"

_Don't. _"Nothing. Don't wreck the stupid thing."

"I won't. I'll see you at ten."

She watched him drive off, the bike disappearing around a corner. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes."

* * *

><p>It was tea around the table save for the chairman himself, who had come in at one minute to ten and made her heart skip a beat in relief. She had imagined all sorts of things, but had talked herself out of texting him madly until he responded. <em>You'd know,<em> she told herself, and so she merely smiled in greeting, in much the same way as she'd greeted the rest of the board. Even Patrick had received a neutral sort of smile, which she was pleased to see had disturbed him.

Matthew began with a few words about Alastair, about the importance of maintaining the culture he'd brought back to the firm, and concluded with posing a question. "Can we promote from within to make a smooth transition?"

"I don't think there's any question it should be Mary." John Howland was the first to speak and a flurry of affirmations flew around the table. "I propose we make that happen right now and present a united front to the stockholders this afternoon."

"I agree." It came from Patrick. "Except for one small detail."

"Yes?" Matthew asked.

Patrick smiled. "I think she ought to explain what your Spain plan is all about."


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: So this was written before the CS aired in the UK, but since all that went down, it's just felt awkward to post this. Read it as you wish. The soundtrack brings us back to "Ruthless Gravity" off Craig Armstrong's "As If To Nothing. Thanks to Eolivet for the beta, and ARCurren for listening to me agonize over it._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 24<strong>

"The Spain plan?" Her voice was as steady as it had been a minute earlier and Matthew could discern no difference in her. She smiled at Patrick. "There's only the way we've discussed shedding that debt and it's not really a plan. You'll have to be more specific."

He blinked, twice, and then shrugged. "I just know you two have a plan," he said.

"I don't see what shedding debt has to do with Mary taking on the CEO role," John interrupted.

Patrick looked back at Matthew. "Is that what you call it?"

_No wonder,_ Matthew thought. "Call what?"

"Is shedding debt a euphemism?"

"For getting rid of toxic assets? It's not the correct use of the word, but I suppose it will have to do." He frowned at Patrick and the rest of the board and executive committee leaned slightly forward as his mind raced ahead, _options, answers, excuses. Christ, we're fucked. Oh, God, Mary. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. We shouldn't have, we were idiots, we.. _

"Oh, Patrick." She sounded almost merry. "Don't be mysterious. Just tell us what you mean."

Patrick paused a fraction longer than Matthew expected. "I just think there ought be be transparency," he muttered. "About anything you're planning on putting Crawley Martin Thorpe's name to.."

"I'm glad you're concerned about appearances," she replied. "It's going to be very important moving forward." She turned away from him. "I appreciate everyone's support in this, I truly..."

"For fuck's sake, Mary. Do you want me to spell out the Spain plan?" Patrick's voice rang through the room and Matthew could hear the assistants gasp along the walls.

Her head swiveled back and her eyes, amber and gleaming like a cat's, rested on Patrick again. "Oh, do," she said. "Although it might shock all of us to find out you can spell."

Patrick looked at Matthew, who raised his eyebrows in expectation. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, _Matthew thought. _Mary, what are you doing? _

No one breathed as Patrick sat there, his eyes flicking back to Mary's, his fingertips beginning to tap on the glass table.

_One, two, three, four, five, six,_ Mary breathed without sound. _Six, five, four, three, two, one.. _The rustling started, the silence too long. _One, two, three, four, five... _

"What the fuck are you playing at, Thorpe? Is this just a fucking fishing expedition?" John's voice exploded from the other side of the table.

Patrick shrugged. "I just want to be sure there isn't anything questionable going on."

"Questionable? There's something you consider questionable?" John began to laugh. "I'd love to see where you draw the line. Mary, go on. The floor was yours."

"Thank you, John." She let a hurt, quizzical look rest on Patrick for a moment, as if to admonish him, and Matthew thought he might burst from the pride he felt. _Got him_, he thought. "I was about to say thank you and.."

"What about New York and Paris?" A groan went up around the table. "What is it you're not telling us? And I mean US." His voice went soft on the end and Mary's heart thumped. _Us._

_Us._

Matthew wasn't ready for it, and Mary could see it, could see that waver in the eyes and she realized he was about to look at her. _Lost, all lost, don't do it, darling, please my love don't do it, don't.. Oh, God, I'm sorry._

"He's not telling you he's going to Centerbank."

Patrick's head whipped around and a murmur rippled through the room at Mary's statement. Matthew's jaw tightened. "Mary, it's not.."

"A good time?" The room shifted, the air gone, and she felt fury come down the table at her, and she did not give away what her heart thought as she looked coolly at Matthew.

* * *

><p>"They'll call it a coup," Aurelie said as he walked into his office and caught the door before he slammed it.<p>

_I nearly lost control. I nearly lost control. _"I don't give a fuck what they'll call it. Did you..."

She pressed a button on her phone and waited. "Will you hold for Matthew Crawley. Thank you."

He snatched it from her. "Hello? Yes. It's settled here. Feel free to make the announcement. Thanks." He handed it back to her just as the door opened and Mary stepped in. "I don't..."

"Aurelie, would you leave us?"

"Aurelie..." But she had already stepped outside, and the door shut behind her. "I should fire her," he muttered.

"Since we're offering her the operations analyst position later this afternoon, I'm not sure it matters."

"You'll take my assistant along with my job?"

"Are you kidding me? Matthew, you have another job. What is your.."

"I wanted that on my terms, Mary. I don't like that I got ousted in there."

She laughed. "You ousted yourself when you decided to say yes to Centerbank. That was just a formality. Would you rather have given us away to Patrick?"

"My terms, Mary. You threw me under the bus."

A prickle of fear, a warning _stop now_ flashed in her head, but he was wrong and she could not let it go. "I did what I had to do to save the company from the kind of mess he was willing to make. He can say anything he wants outside the boardroom and it won't matter anymore. We voted him off. Percy's dropped the hammer. His files are locked, his computers are all the property of the company and they're collecting them now from his house. It will all be sour grapes, anything he tries to do outside, but in there..." She started to shake and she took hold of the back of a chair. "He knew the words, Matthew. He knew Spain plan. He knew New York and Paris. He knew _us. _He may not know everything but he knows enough..." _Look at me, my love. Please... _"Matthew, I could not let him destroy this place with it. You're not under the bus. You're off to do what you do best. And then we..."

He looked at her, mouth tight and said nothing. Her throat dried and her heart began to pound and still he was silent. He stood motionless next to the window, his eyes cold upon hers. and she gripped the chair even harder, waiting for anything. "Or not," she finally whispered. "I didn't realize I'd ruined everything."

He looked down at the street, away from her, and things began to shrink from her, shrink inside. _Look at me. _"You wouldn't have done it any differently," she muttered. "Matthew..."

"I wish I'd done something very differently."

It was like a cut, clean and quick, and he was suddenly not there, not real, a voice and body at the end of a long tunnel. She'd forgotten what it felt like, the void, but there it was, as familiar as air and water. "All right." Her voice was strong and sharp, and it pleased her. "I assume you'll be there for the stockholders' meeting this afternoon. It will all go as planned and then you're free of us."

"I'll see you then," he replied. "I wish you the best."

She waited for a beat, but no more, and she saw his eyes in the glass of the window, watching her. "Good luck at Centerbank," she said.

**FINANCIAL TIMES: COMPETING CRAWLEYS: SHAKEUP PUTS MATTHEW CRAWLEY AT CENTERBANK AND MARY CRAWLEY ON TOP AT CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE.**

Greg was oddly silent when she returned to her office after the stockholders' meeting. He poured her tea, which she did not touch, and he did not insist upon her taking a look at the headlines that were popping up across the sphere. She turned off the television and closed her eyes, stretching her legs across her desk.

"When do you want to go home?" he asked.

"Six," she said. "Why?"

"I need to tell your sister when to start the surprise party tonight." Her eyes snapped open and he shrugged. "You hate surprises and Sybil hates to be caught off guard."

"I'm going to miss you," she said. "You'll have to come fix my corporate attitude sometimes."

"I haven't gotten it yet."

"No one else is interviewing for it," she said. "I'm quite serious."

He nodded. "I'm surprised."

"You frightened them off."

"I doubt it." But he smiled and took her cold tea away. "Are you all right?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"It was a little rough in there. I think you blindsided him."

"Possibly."

"A nice performance in the shareholders' meeting, though. No one would suspect the fight you'd just had." He watched for a reaction, but there was none. "Did he tell you about Centerbank when you were in Paris? Or New York?"

_First Sybil, now Greg. I'm not as good as I thought I was. _"Does it matter?"

"What happened between you two?"

"None of your business," she said.

"Did you make me lie for you?"

"None of your business."

"You've made your life my business."

"Greg, you never lied for me." She sat up. "And that's where this conversation ends."

**NEW YORK TIMES: DEALBOOK: CENTERBANK'S WIN IS CRAWLEY MARTIN THORPE'S WIN: BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE CRAZIEST SHAKEUP IN 2012**

"When's the board and executive committee party?" Jemma asked as Mary refilled her glass.

"Friday," she said. "Our new risk officer will be in from Tokyo and we'll properly mark the way forward then." She took a sip. "If you're interested, I need a new political risk analyst. I'm promoting Thandi."

"Couldn't pay me," Jemma said with a grin. "But thanks for thinking of me. Have you called Annika? She's hating Bosworth."

"I have to stop lifting from there," Mary said.

"You did well," Jemma said. "Pretending to be surprised."

"Practice," Mary topped off Jemma's glass. "And you know I can't bear it when Sybil looks disappointed."

"How did Matthew.." Jemma stopped when Holly emerged from the studio with two empty bottles. "Eddie started a drinking game," Holly called out.

"I'm sure she has," Mary murmured and pulled two more bottles out of the fridge. Jemma watched Mary's hand tremble a bit, and she felt rather than saw the sorrow inside. _Damn it, Mary. Always with the happy mask._ She knew whatever it was would not come out tonight, at least not now, and so she took Holly's hand. "Come on. I want in on the game. Mary?"

"I'll be there in a minute," Mary called after them. She stared at the empty bottles, breathing, willing the tears back, but it was no good, and she fled to the terrace.

* * *

><p>It was exactly as he expected, <em>smile nod agree laugh insert joke laugh again remember names tell a story brush off a question begin again. <em>He knew nearly everyone by reputation, most from social events, and so nothing was a surprise, but he didn't expect it all to feel quite so empty. Dark hair flicked over a shoulder made him jump, and his stomach churned again in anger and the sick feeling that had flared the second she shut the door began to come back in waves. He wanted to leave, began to think of how he could get out of this, and he nearly laughed out loud. _You're the chairman. Just leave. _

But the air outside was no better for him, the car a cold shock. He felt chopped in half, wrong, incomplete, and he kicked at the traces of awareness that told him why, and even the wrong ringtone made his heart jump in hope before it made him feel sick again. "Hello, Alice," he answered.

"You shouldn't be answering your phone," she replied. "I was going to leave a message congratulating you and then resign myself to being the last person you called about this."

He shut his eyes. "It's been a hard day."

"Matthew, you don't have hard days. Women in Aleppo have hard days. What does Mary think?"

He picked at the edge of the seat.

"Matthew?"

"I'm here."

"What does Mary think?"

"Why do you care what Mary thinks?"

"Don't get sharp with me." Alice's voice went cold.

"Since she was the cause of all of today's upheaval, I imagine she's quite pleased with herself."

"But you don't know? What do you mean, Mary was the cause? And I want truth here, not that self-justification rubbish I get from my students. What happened?"

* * *

><p>He went looking for Mary with a champagne bottle in hand, ready to toast and relive her glory and the moment of watching Patrick being escorted from the building for the last time, but he found her curled in a ball on the terrace chaise, trying not to cry, and he leaned against the wall out of sight. The Mary he had known all his life did not like to be seen in a such a state, but as the minutes passed, she did not stop shaking, and he did not know what to do until she spoke, her voice thick and unfamiliar. "Damn it, Matthew," she whispered.<p>

"I pray thee Mary, sweet my coz, be merry." Percy's voice made her flinch, but she laughed in spite of herself.

"Oh, Percy. That's a girl's part."

"I probably did it at school. Thank God I ended up tall and didn't have to continue doing drag at uni."

"Operative phrase being 'have to,'" she said.

"It was for charity." He sat on the edge of the chaise. "What's this? And what's with damning the former chairman?"

"Nothing," she said. "Just a little overwhelmed."

"A big day."

"Yes." She sat up and wiped her eyes. _Never down for long. _His grandmother's observation of Mary popped into his mind. "Well done on Patrick. Is he all sealed up?"

"Boxed up and locked up. All of his hard drives accounted for. We are rid of him." He watched her look briefly at her phone, disappointment in every blink of her eyes. "Is it what Holly thinks?"

"What does Holly think?"

"My darling fiancée.."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you. My darling fiancée theorized on our little jaunt to Downton that there may be more than meets the eye to the relationship between the chairman and the group finance director. I told her she reads too many novels. But she's right, isn't she?"

She wilted, her chin dropping as she nodded. "We were idiots," she mumbled.

"I didn't notice anything, but again, Holly thinks I'm blind to anything that doesn't involve code. I take it he didn't appreciate you forcing his hand on Centerbank?"

"I didn't have a choice. Patrick was about to try and get Matthew to confess it and I couldn't let it happen."

"Oh, I hear you played it perfectly. Truth is, men like Matthew Crawley aren't used to others being able to figure things out faster than they can." He leaned back and smiled at her. "You, my brilliant cousin, beat him today. Not in a bad way, not in a humiliating way, just... How do you feel about him?"

"Now? I'm furious."

"No, Lady Mary. I mean do you love him?"

She picked at the chaise. "It's irrelevant now. He's made it clear how he feels."

"About this, perhaps."

"About everything."

"Mary, it's called an argument. People have them. Is this your first?"

"It was our last."

"You never have more than one argument, do you? You walk out."

She stood up. "Stop it, Percy."

"He's being an arse. What if he calls you on that phone you're clinging to right now? Or texts you? What are you going to do when he figures out he was an arse and he tries to apologize?"

"This was worse than that."

"I think this is worse because it's the first time it's mattered."

She leaned against the terrace wall, looking out over the city, and he saw each nerve take the strike, and while Holly had been right, she had not suspected what he now knew, and his heart broke for Mary.

* * *

><p>"You shitty little prick."<p>

"Alice!"

"Seriously. She saves your hide, the hide of the company, keeps this man you should have got rid of months ago from exposing both of you and you withhold your love. Shitty little prick doesn't begin to cover it. On what planet would you not have done exactly the same thing?"

"It wasn't up to her.."

"Bullshit. BULL... SHIT. You wish you'd thought of it. I've half a mind to call her and tell her congratulations for shedding the dead weight."

"I've half a mind to hang up."

"Matthew, honestly." She started to laugh, and he felt an odd relief at it. "What were you thinking?"

He was quiet for a moment, listening to her breathe and laugh, and he finally laughed himself. "Does the baby like it when you swear like a sailor?"

"Kicks quite happily when I do it. Matthew, fix this. Please. I can't have two babies to take care of. Three, if you count the actual baby."

"Alice..."

"Fix it. Now. The longer you wait, the worse it gets."

* * *

><p>The sounds from the studio were getting louder. "You should get back in there. Holly won't beat Eddie at any drinking game."<p>

"She can hold her own. I'm fine right here." He popped the cork and handed her the bottle. "Like old times."

She took a slow swig, keeping the bubbles from spilling over. "Do you fight with Holly?"

"All the time," he said. "And it's an argument, not a fight. You need to learn the difference." He took a drink and was not nearly as successful, which made Mary laugh. "I argue with a kind, funny, beautiful woman with a brilliant mind and just a little bit of a malicious streak. And then we make up. That's how this works." He wiped the front of his shirt and handed back the bottle. "If he's worthy of you, he'll figure out he's being an arse."

Holly stepped onto the terrace. "Who's an arse?"

"You were right," Percy said.

"Of course I was." Holly flopped down on the chaise. "About what?"

Percy raised an eyebrow at Mary. "Your guess at Downton."

"That wasn't a guess, darling." Her dark eyes swiveled to Mary and she reached for the bottle. "Are you all right?"

"I should ask you that question. How's the game going?"

Holly took a delicate sip of the champagne. "I won."

Percy grinned. "See, Mary? I'm right."

"Who's an arse?"

"No one," Mary replied.

Percy took the champagne back and looked up at Mary. "Can I say one more thing?"

"Can you?"

He threw the cork at her. "Give him an opening."

"Why should I?"

"Because you love him."

* * *

><p>He typed a dozen starts, each one not enough, and he gave up as he reached her building and stepped out. "Don't wait," he said to the driver with more confidence than he felt. He pressed the buzzer and a laughing voice told him he was useless at getting in doors. "Try again," she said, and he did not understand why until the half-closed elevator door opened again to reveal Ben.<p>

"So you've heard? Christ," Ben muttered.

"About what?"

Ben's face bent into a frown. "Wait. Why are you here?"

Matthew's phone _her phone_ pinged, and he looked down just as four words scrolled to the screen **your kitchen your shirt.**"Mary," he said with a smile. "And there's something you should know."

Ben stared at him just as the elevator doors opened. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be here," he said slowly. "Not after today."

"Mary gets to decide that," Matthew muttered as the door flew open.

"Took you long en.. oh." Jemma's face fell. "I thought you were my husband."

"No," Ben said, his hand coming up to poke Matthew in the chest. "No, you are not. You didn't. You MORON." He turned to see Mary behind Jemma. "Are you two kidding me?"

"Ben?" She pushed past Jemma. "What are you doing here?"

"We have a problem." He glared at Matthew. "Apparently two problems. Three, maybe. Too many to count. Can I come in?"

She nodded and stepped aside. Ben brushed past her and Matthew reached out his hand. "I'm sorry."

"Shh. Yes." She kissed him quickly. "We'll talk."

"I do love you," he whispered against her ear.

"I know you do," she replied. Ben was staring at the still life of dead animals and cupcakes with the strangest of looks. "Ben?" Mary waved Jemma back to the kitchen. "What is it?"

He turned to her. "The Alix Westfield investigation took a turn. They had some fresh leads from the new timeline and they found her body."

"Her body?" Mary went cold.

"Where?"

"Get him out of here," Ben said. "He's got no business knowing this."

"Is it a secret? It's going to come out anyway." She folded her arms. "Answer the question."

"She was buried in a location I can't yet tell you about. They found her yesterday and what they found with her gave them something."

"What was it?"

"Her mobile. A disposable. Something she used to keep in touch with someone." He folded his hands on top of his head and looked back at the painting again. "Mary, she was in contact with your father. Texts, phone messages... I'm sorry, Mary."

"Sorry about what?" Her voice pitched higher.

"Mary, they were having an affair."

She froze for a moment, her arms folding closer, her hands wrapping her ribs. "This is important because..."

"He was the last message. Mary, they've arrested Rob for her murder."

The sound was not quite a cry, not quite a laugh, and it did not come from Mary. It came again, and they turned to see Eddie, standing at the edge of the hall, staring at them, grey eyes wide.

And Eddie screamed.

**TBC**


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Soundtrack: Daughter - "Smother" _

__Curious what you think... _ _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 25<strong>

Mary saw chaos, but could not hear it, could not hear Matthew calling to Eddie, could not hear Sybil's voice raised in anger, could not hear Jemma trying to calm Eddie. She could only hear a scream telling her over and over again that _Papa lied, Maman's dead, Papa lied._

_Papa lied. _

"Stop it, Eddie!" She snapped, and the room went silent as her arms went around her sister and she whispered it again in her ear. "Stop it, darling."

She felt the nod, heard the cry become a whisper of breath, and Sybil's voice, low and urgent, suddenly spiked in pitch and volume.

"Are you fucking kidding me? I'm a columnist for fuck's sake. Can't I be the one to say it?" She stared at Mary as the person on the mobile droned on, and Sybil's eyes grew dark. "You've already put it out online that I've decided to stop my column to be with my family. You fucking assume he's my family? You fucking assume that's how we should handle this? You… You know what? Fine. We will talk about this rationally and calmly in the morning. We'll also talk about your irrational love of the phrase 'some say.' And you'll stop fucking adding fucking adverbs to my fucking columns." She threw the phone down on a chair. "Needless to say, I'm off the paper until Rob either gets executed or cleared. I'm betting executed. Anyone?" She crawled over the back of the sofa and wrapped herself around the other side of Eddie, who pulled her sister's hand against her heart.

"But it would only solve so much," Mary murmured.

Felix picked up Sybil's phone and slipped it into his pocket. "Sybil, you are aware they don't execute murderers anymore?"

"Je veux le tuer._" _Sybil's whisper barely reached Mary's ears. "_Je veux le tuer," Sybil screamed when the promises were never kept and a broken sister turned her eyes to the wall. "Je veux le tuer," she hissed when forced to acknowledge her father's remarriage. "Je veux le tuer," she cried when she saw the jet waiting to take them to their mother's funeral. _"Why can't he let us be?"

"It's not that simple," Mary said. "You've said it yourself."

"It should be. He made his choices. All of them." Her voice dropped, and it was as if there were only three people in that vast room. "Maman died because he wouldn't listen to her."

"That's not why Maman died."

"She didn't want to stay in the hospital and she ended up with pneumonia. You think I shouldn't blame him for that? Eddie... Patrick should be in prison for what he did, and Rob protected him when he told us.. he told us, Mary that he would fix it. He let people try to destroy you. He should be nothing to us and yet he can ruin our lives. I hate him, Mary."

Mary shifted so that both sisters were in her arms, heads tucked together, and a thousand rages like this one flashed through her mind. _Sybil at fourteen, refusing to get on the jet, screaming on the tarmac that all this fucking money meant nothing, and she wanted nothing to do with it, Sybil blithely ignoring her father's overtures for years, Sybil's clear and cold demand that he respect her autonomy as a journalist above all other things, and finally, after her wedding in which no one gave her away, her seeming acceptance of him, her willingness to be kind, to smile at him, to call him Papa. And now his last ally... _"My strong girl," she whispered.

"I hate him," Sybil's voice rose and she began to sob.

"Calm down. It's not good for the baby." Mary kissed her forehead.

Sybil let go of them both. "Calm down? After being told I'm out of a job?"

"You're not fired," Felix said

"By the time this is settled, no one will care what Sybil Maier thinks about anything."

"Take advantage of it," Felix replied. "You can relax before the baby's born."

Mary knew that look, and she wound her arm back around her sister. "He's right," she said before Sybil could respond. "Take advantage of it." She could sense the fight in Sybil, feel the struggle to stop from lashing out at Felix, but it did not last for long, and after a long, shuddering breath, Mary let her slip from her arms and into Felix's.

Eddie shifted, wiped her eyes, and kissed Mary on the cheek. "Better?" Mary whispered, and Eddie let her go without a smile or a look, only a sigh as she limped away. The world grew to size again as she watched Eddie take Holly's hand and lead her into the studio, saw Nate come in, heard Jemma's low voice explaining it all, and turned at the sound of a voice.

"Mary?"

_What a mess,_ she thought as she regarded Matthew. She understood his look, that odd combination of helplessness and sorrow, and wanted to wipe away that frown.

"Mary." It was not his voice, but Ben's, and she dragged her eyes away from Matthew's to look at him. "We need to talk about what to do."

"For him?"

"That's a different conversation. My priority is the protection of the firm. I took the liberty of alerting PR. This happened during his tenure, but..."

His voice blurred like his face, and Mary sat down quickly, only half-listening to _insulating the firm against the potential damage, criminal investigation into that call, now your involvement will be in question, instability, leave of absence. _"What?"

"You might want to consider a leave of absence."

"I will not be pushed aside because of the crimes of my father. The shareholders trust me. To step aside would only make things worse. No."

His eyes were kind. "I think you and I should meet with PR and with John to discuss the way forward."

"I think you ought to let me make that determination," she murmured, and she was pleased to see the effect of her tone. _My home, my firm, my decision,_ she thought, and the anger flared anew. "And I need to see Rob. Can you arrange that?"

"I don't advise.. Mary, the optics on you going to see him.."

"I don't care. Get me in a back door, find some way so you prevent the optics problem. That's what I pay you for. I need to see him."

He nodded, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Jemma's hand touched her shoulder and she flinched. "What can I do?" Jemma whispered.

"Nothing," she said.

A few terse words, and Ben hung up. "It'll take a few," he said to Matthew. "So when were you going to tell me the chairman was fucking the group finance director?"

"I thought the last person who was supposed to know anything was corporate counsel," Matthew replied. "And the former chairman wasn't fucking anyone. The group finance director wasn't fucking anyone."

"What do you call it then, when you've violated policy?"

"Love," Matthew said, and was greeted with a snort. "You don't believe me?"

"Do you understand the level of disaster you would have caused? At least now we can pretend it only just started. Possibly that predator on CNBC will stop looking at you as if you're candy during interviews if she thinks you have a girlfriend, although the old CEO of Bosworth Standish might dispute that assessment. Matthew, this isn't 2007. You people aren't invincible anymore." His phone rang and he picked it up.

He did not feel invincible. He looked at Mary, slumped on the sofa, and anger flared in him at the presumption of Ben, of anyone to misunderstand what they had, to misunderstand why they had taken such risks. Ben, indulged by living parents, loved by siblings and an extended family, could not begin to comprehend it, not even if Matthew could explain it, not even if he wanted to. Only his sister, only her sisters, only Mary understood.

"Matthew?" Jemma leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "This is my husband, Nate." She watched them shake hands. "I want you two to have a real conversation at some point, but she's kicking us out. Make sure she sleeps tonight. She'll worry about them." She darted a look at Mary, who was hugging Percy. "And I don't think she should see her father, but I'm going to lose that argument. You might have better luck."

"Go," Mary said. "I'm fine."

"No," Percy said. "You're not, and I'm not leaving until I know what you're going to do that doesn't involve going to see Rob."

"I need to see him," Mary said. "Ben?"

"Still working," he said. "But if anyone wants to leave, just know they're going to run the gauntlet outside. Sky, ITV, BBC, FT, they're already out there."

"Christ," Percy said.

"They won't have found the freight dock," Felix said. "It's inside the building. I parked there. Anyone wants to duck out with us, they're welcome."

"Holly!" Percy called out.

There was a long moment of silence before the studio door opened. "This one time, I will allow you to bellow for me," Holly muttered. "Are we leaving?"

* * *

><p>Matthew sat down next to her and his hand found hers.<p>

"You should have gone with them," she said.

"No," he said against her hair.

She pulled his arm over her, around her shoulders as she put her cheek to his heart, and he let her breathe there for a bit, her eyes half-closed against the things that made her shake.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "All of it."

She put her fingertips against his lips, and then her hand around his neck as she kissed him, in full view of Ben. "You should be," she murmured against his mouth.

"I should tell you how brilliant you were," he replied, smiling as he let his lips trail across her cheek.

"Did Alice tell you to say that?"

He laughed. "No, but she'd agree with me." She nestled closer to him just as Ben put down his phone.

"Ready?" Ben asked.

"I can see him?"

"Briefly. We'll need to go out through that freight dock if you don't want to be seen on this end. On that end, we'll have to take you through the..." He did not continue, and Mary knew what he meant. "Mary, I still don't think it's a good idea."

"Things need to be said," Mary muttered.

"I'll come with you," Matthew said.

Mary shook her head. "You can't."

"You can't do it alone."

"Yes, I can. I have." She sat back. "And I will."

"Mary..."

A ragged voice called from the studio. "I'm coming with you."

He felt the tremor go through her as Eddie walked out, ebony and silver stick in one hand and a pair of black Converse trainers in the other. "I'm coming with you," Eddie repeated as she sat down next to her sister and slipped on the shoes. "Stay," she said to Matthew. "Please stay. This won't take long."

It was Mary's turn to be silent as the freight lift descended, her hand in her sister's, mind whirling, _my sister talked to me, my sister can speak, Eddie... _

Eddie's hand flexed atop the old stick, tapping the silver one-two-one-two-three. The brushed steel of the lift doors twisted her face, and blurred her scars, but it did nothing to mask the fact that Ben was staring at her. She looked at him, a dare to look her full in the face, to acknowledge the mess of her, and he did, with a smile that fit none of her expectations. A warmth she hadn't felt in a long time flickered inside and she couldn't stop herself from smiling back.

"There," Mary said as the doors slid open on the dock. She pointed to a battered old Land Rover. "Can you drive it?"

Ben took the keys from her and opened the door. "You're sure?"

"Yes," Mary said as Eddie climbed into the back.

They escaped without notice, the dock entrance coming out two blocks away from the glut of reporters and trucks parked outside. Mary waited for Eddie to say something else, but she was silent as she watched the night city go by, and Mary had nothing to say, not in front of Ben, who she did not trust, especially not with Eddie.

It only took a few words with the man at the gate, and a short phone call before they were inside the secured perimeter, and within a minute they were at the door. "Last chance to listen to me," Ben murmured as they were ushered inside.

"She's listened. She just knows better," Eddie said. "Thank you for bringing us."

"Eddie, maybe you should wait.."

"No."

"Ms. Crawley?" The guard handed Mary a lanyard with a pass on it. "If you could step this way." He gestured toward a metal detector.

"I have something of yours," Ben said under his breath, and Eddie tilted her head toward his, not taking her eyes off her sister being patted down. "This piece of canvas. It's not normal canvas, is it?"

"Define normal."

"If I carbon-dated it, would it tell me it was from the early seventeenth century?"

She tapped her nose and followed her sister through the metal detector.

The hallway was bright and silent, save for the wails of someone behind one of those doors, a woman's terrified voice denying whatever she was being accused of, and Mary shivered. "Really, Eddie, if you want to wait."

"I have as much to say as you do," Eddie said. "And it's about time he heard it from me."

The officer escorting them stopped in front of a door. "You have five minutes. No touching. There's a guard with him and cameras. If you want to leave, press the button by the door."

_She knows he reads the pink-coloured paper first, and she brings it to him before she can read. Papa is tall and smart, she tells her primary school teacher. Papa hangs my school reports in his office, Papa laughs at Sybil's stories at the dinner table, Papa puts up every drawing Eddie gives him. Papa is tall and handsome, and not like other fathers. _

_She is proud to hold his hand on special days. _

He did not look up as they sat down, his fingers digging into his hair, too-big clothes not his own hanging from his frame. "I didn't do it," he said.

"Do what?" Mary's voice was soft, and she saw his shoulders tighten.

"I didn't kill Alix." He pushed his eyes into the heels of his hands.

"Did you have an affair?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation.

"Did you cheat on our mother?"

"Never."

"Look at her when she's speaking to you." Eddie's rough voice banged against the walls, and Rob's head snapped up. "Did you cheat on our mother?"

"Never," he whispered. "Edith..."

"Eddie," she said. "We don't ask much, so please call us by the names we've chosen. Or is even that too much for you?"

He was silent, eyes roving over her face, and she tilted it to the light so he could see the scar, and his face crumpled back into his hands.

"Do you have a good lawyer?" Mary asked.

He nodded.

"You understand not one of us will be there for you in the courtroom?" His head bobbed again. "I imagine Charlotte won't be either. I don't think I need to tell you why."

"You just came to tell me that?"

"I came to get one answer, and I'm not sure I believe it."

"I didn't kill her."

"Who didn't you kill?"

He said nothing, and a wave of exhaustion swept over Mary. "If your money gets tied up, let me know. I probably owe you a few million for my upbringing."

"I don't want your money, Mary."

She shrugged and stood up. "It's all I can give you."

He shrugged in response, and his breath began to hitch.

"Let's go," Mary said, and his head rose again.

"I'm sorry, Eddie," he said. "I can't stop him."

"You never did," she replied.

"I tried."

"Not enough." She stood, her hands on the table, balancing for a moment before letting go. "Good luck, Papa."

Grey eyes met grey eyes. "Do you believe me, Eddie?"

"Patrick told me you were a murderer three years ago. I didn't believe him then."

"But you do now." His voice cracked, and something began to break inside Mary.

Eddie turned away, and limped toward the door to press the button. "You left me for dead," she said.

* * *

><p>"I'll drive," Eddie said when they reached the car. "Thank you, Ben." She tossed her stick in the front and hopped up.<p>

"You remember how?" Mary asked.

"I learned on this car. You taught me. If you forgot to tell me anything, now would be a good time."

"Mary?" She turned back to Ben. "I'm sorry about earlier. I overstepped."

"Yes, you did." She smiled up at him. "We'll talk tomorrow about what to do. In the meantime, thank you for this."

"You're welcome." He looked at Eddie, who was revving the engine with no small amount of pleasure. "I won't tell anyone."

She nodded, and let him help her into the Land Rover.

Mary let the gates slam shut behind them before show spoke. "How long?"

Eddie shrugged and signaled a turn. "For a while."

"And you couldn't tell me?"

"You didn't ask."

"Eddie, for God's sake.."

"It only just started to sound right," she said. "And I like our quiet. I like that it's all simple and down to only what must be said. Simple," she repeated, and Mary could hear the struggle, the slight oddness of the diction.

It started to rain, and Mary turned on the windscreen wipers before Eddie could find them. "What did he mean? He couldn't stop Patrick?"

Eddie did not answer.

"Why were you in the car with him?"

"No," Eddie said.

"Eddie, what happened.."

"No," she repeated, a little louder. "No."

They drove in silence, the squeak of the wipers masking the struggles not to cry. "I'm glad," Mary finally said. "That you're here, and that you've let us back in. All of us." She rested her hand on top of Eddie's. "You and Holly seem to have bonded."

"Jealous?"

"Eddie.."

"She keeps Percy from being too serious." The dock entrance loomed ahead, and Mary pressed the remote button to open it. "And I like her. She doesn't wrap me in silk and feathers."

"I see."

Eddie shut off the engine and took Mary's hand. "I don't mean it like that. I love you. I love that you saved me. You have a life to live. I want you to live it. Things are going to change and.."

"Eddie, how are things going to change?"

"I said no."

They were silent on the way up, and Eddie let Mary hold her tightly in the foyer, felt her sister's tears against her cheek, and only when she saw Matthew did Eddie let go. "Thank you," she said to Matthew. "I'm going to paint." She smiled up at Mary. "It's all right. I'll turn up the music."

Mary watched her go, her chin wobbling. "We talked," she said in wonder. "We talked."

"It's all right," he said as he put his arms around her. "Let it out."

"No," she said. "All I do is cry around you, and you're the one person who doesn't make me cry." She took his hand just as PJ Harvey began to blast through the door. "Come," she said.

"Mary, we..."

"Your slightest look easily will unclose me," she whispered.

It was different now, different here, the music muted by walls and their own sighs and breaths, the weight of secrecy all but gone. He kissed her as he had not had time to in months, and she found the places along his throat she had forgotten to taste the last time _when had it been too long never enough_ and it became what it was the first time, the last time, every time. "I love you," he whispered over and over against her skin, her hip, her breast. "Love you," she gasped as he took her yet again as lightning cracked the sky with splinters the colour of his eyes. They had _time_ where they had never had it before, all the time in the world, and they used it that night as the rain pounded against the windows, as reporters wrote and breathlessly told stories about a murder in which every fact was correct, but every conclusion was wrong, and a lone reporter in Germany filed a story that was lucky to make page three of _The Times_ that day. It was front page news in New York.

**NEW YORK TIMES: ONCE BELIEVED DESTROYED, CARAVAGGIO'S 'SAINT MATTHEW AND THE ANGEL' UNCOVERED IN BERLIN BASEMENT.**

**tbc...**


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Thanks again for all your reviews, and thanks to ARCurren and Eolivet. Soundtrack is Scala's version of "Everything in Its Right Place." _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 26<strong>

Matthew awoke at five, alone in the vast, low bed as the rain beat against the skylight. He forgot where he was for a moment, forgot the day before as he blinked in the low light. Mary's room, Mary's flat.

Mary's father.

He hated himself for feeling relieved that he would not be the one to have to face Crawley Martin Thorpe this morning. It would be a brutal day, both marketwise and inside the glass and brick walls. Months of work undone by the chatter of scandal, of a three-year-old crime, of an arrest of a man once considered a giant in the industry, and Mary would have to face it alone.

He wandered into the hallway, listening for any sound, and heard a soft voice coming from a room. It wasn't Mary, wasn't Eddie, and he strained to catch the words and tone before he knocked.

"Yes," Mary said, and he walked into hot, wet air, a room lined with mirrors, and Mary seated in the middle, soaked in sweat, her body folded in half, her head nearly touching her feet. The voice came from the speakers, and Matthew recognized it as Jemma's.

"Change," the recording said, and Mary put herself flat on her back, ignoring Matthew. Two slow breaths, and she was up again, twisting herself into a veritable pretzel, her eyes finally meeting his as she twisted first on one side, then the other. He grinned, and she smiled back as she lay down again, and he watched her finish the practice, her voice answering Jemma's. "Namaste." He felt the heat begin to dissipate and the lights dimmed as she closed her eyes, her breathing slow for a minute, before she stood and hung the mat over a bar along the wall. "Shower," she said, and he followed her to a room of glass and stone where she pulled him under the spray with her and they stood, wrapped together for long minutes before he started soaping her up, making her laugh with his precision. He thought of things to tell her _don't apologize for him, don't apologize for anything today, get your core team together first thing, have Aurelie suss out the assistants to __see __what's being said, _but he said none of these things, letting her talk about the morning's numbers, the Asia reports of a shaky start to the day, the already-stellar response of their PR team in Tokyo. Eddie was nowhere to be seen when they finally emerged into the still-messy kitchen, and he tossed champagne bottles into the recycling bin as she boiled water, making him a pot of French press along with her tea. _Don't let Ben make any decisions, he's too cautious. __John __can read the board pretty well__. __Let him push back on the detractors. __ Watch __the DAX and the Hang Seng for your clues, the Nikkei will overshoot. _He commented only on the secondary stories of the day, on the American reporters going back-and-forth over a candidate for Senate and her past statements on credit and banking practices, and on a new wrinkle in Spain's banking mess, which made her smile as she kissed him.

"What will you do today?" She sorted through papers on her desk, and he silently admired the room, the shaded skylights, the covered terrace, the easily disguised wall of television screens.

"Steal your office," he said. "Unless you're putting me in the Shelby's boot to sneak me out."

"You wouldn't fit," she replied. "Stay. Charissa will be here to clean in an hour." She quirked an eyebrow at his startled look. "She worked for my mother. Entirely discreet, she won't blink an eye. I'll warn her so she doesn't try out her karate skills on you."

"She has karate skills?"

"Mad karate skills. She's a senior champion. I'm not joking." She laughed along with him. "Eddie, tell him."

"Mad skills," Eddie echoed as she sat on the edge of Mary's desk, a large mug of tea in her hand. "You don't have to work today?"

"I don't officially start until Monday, but I'll do some work today. May I keep you company?"

"You don't need to ask," Eddie said.

He made the excuse of needing more coffee and Mary watched him go with a small smile before she turned back to Eddie. "What did you do last night?"

"You first," Eddie said. When all she got was an eyebrow, she grinned. "Self-portrait. In the style of Instagram," she intoned, sounding so like Felix that Mary burst out laughing. "It's nothing, but sometimes that's nice."

"Nice," Mary repeated, and surprised her sister by hugging her.

"Hey, hey. It's stiff upper lip day. Save it for dinner tonight." Eddie smoothed Mary's dark hair and pulled a long lock over her shoulder. "You just be as strong as you are today. Whatever he did or didn't do doesn't reflect on you."

"Eddie, do you think.."

"I don't think. I stopped thinking about all of that a long time ago." She stood up, and Mary watched her test her balance before stepping forward. "Should I warn Charissa about the strange man or will you?"

"I will. You're really all right with him hanging around today?"

"You make him sound like a slacker."

Mary's mouth twitched. "Since I'm working today and he's not, that makes him a slacker in my book."

"Your poor assistants. Your poor company." Eddie picked up an iPad. "Usual time tonight?"

Eddie disappeared as soon as Mary came back into the main room, leaving her to a barefoot Matthew in dress trousers and a t-shirt. "It's a shame we're not a normal couple. You should have clothes here," she murmured as she rubbed his scruffy jaw. "There are razors. You could shave."

"Oh no," he said. "The prerogative of all men who don't have to go to work is to forgo shaving."

"I do hope you'll extend the same courtesy to me," she murmured.

He grinned as he kissed her, and he felt her smile against him. "I will extend everything," he whispered.

"No advice?" she asked.

"About today? No."

She nodded. "Thank you."

"You don't need it."

"I probably do, but.." She shrugged. "I love you for not saying any of the things you were thinking in the kitchen this morning."

"Poker face fail?"

"Complete fail." She dragged her fingers across his rough cheek again. "But I love you for it."

"May I just say one thing?"

She looked away. "Maybe."

"What is Aurelie doing today?"

She frowned. "Probably putting together the guide for your new assistant. I told her she should take care of that before anything else."

"Use her today. She can find out what people are saying and she'll know how to do it without raising suspicion. My assistant's copy of _War and Preferences_ can wait."

Mary laughed. "Is that what she calls it?"

"No, she calls it _La Naus__é__e._" He kissed her. "And a question. Do you want my departure to be an unfortunate coincidence of timing? Or a no comment?"

"Are you expecting the direct question?"

He held up his phone. "Three of them so far."

"Your call," she said. "It is an unfortunate coincidence."

"True," he said, and kissed her again. "Have a nice day at work, darling."

She let her face rest against his neck for a moment. "I do like the sound of that. You sending me off to work. All you need is a sweet little apron."

He was still laughing when the door clicked shut.

* * *

><p>It was not a good day, not from the moment she pulled out from the garage and discovered the swarm of reporters had found the freight entrance to her building. <em>My car is faster than your car,<em> she thought as she sped off. She called Matthew to warn him about the scrum, and then made it past another crowd of them outside Crawley Martin Thorpe. Greg met her at the garage, silent until they reached her office. "Aurelie's here," he said as he ushered her through the doors.

"Good morning." Aurelie sat at the small conference table.

"Did Matthew call you?"

"No," Aurelie said. "What do you need me to do?" At Mary's silence, she shrugged. "He emailed me to say I shouldn't worry about him today, which is his way of saying I should worry about something else. I made the connection. What do you need me to do?"

"Quite a lot," Mary said. "First of all, keep me apprised of what Centerbank says?"

Aurelie nodded. "He'll tell the truth, you know."

"Of course I do." Her fingers picked at the edge of her sleeve. "And what's said about..."

"Yes," Aurelie said. "Consider it done."

It did not get better with the relentless barrage of press questions, headlines, blogs, and speculation. The board and executive committee were fractious, like small children worried about toys, and Mary was secretly thankful for John's baleful glares at the most idiotic of the questioners as she established what the company's public response would be going forward. The markets had a varied response, but the company did not, and it was with no small relief that she watched the opening on Wall Street come and go without a significant drop in the trading price. Centerbank issued a terse, carefully worded statement about the unfortunate coincidence, which matched theirs, and while CNBC could not help but have a little fun with the timing of Matthew Crawley's departure, it got old after a while, and she was relieved to see a rumour about Apple temporarily spin the cycle away from CMT in the financial news.

The tabloid and British press were not quite so easy to distract. After all, a murder in which the suspect was a billionaire was catnip, as Aurelie put it, and the longer they stayed focused on it, the more likely it would affect CMT's stock price. Aurelie kept a running narrative to her of the reporting, along with a sense of the company's mood which, much to Mary's relief, was positive and in her camp. It did not make it any easier to watch the reports that gleefully detailed her father's affair and Charlotte's public announcement that she was divorcing him, reports that showed pictures of Mary, of Sybil, of Edith from years ago. She flinched at one that showed her mother, and dashed off a quick text to Sybil, only to get an earful about the _shitty coverage at the Guardian and why couldn't anyone just do a simple fact check_? She let Sybil rail for a few minutes while she watched the stock price rise and tremble before falling again. "Do you want us?"

"Sorry, what?"

Sybil sighed. "Do you want us for dinner tonight? Or should we all stay in our bunkers?"

"I was hoping to go out tonight," Mary said. "But I don't think that's going to be possible."

"What time is your press conference?"

"Five."

"I can get there in time if you need me."

"You're joking."

Sybil snorted. "I'm not. I'm off the paper. If you want support, you should have it."

"No," Mary said. "It's probably best if the rest of the family isn't seen at CMT for the foreseeable future."

"Mary, you shouldn't have to do this alone."

"You're sweet to offer, but no. It'll muddy the water. His relationship to the company was severed earlier this year. It's unfortunate that this happened during his tenure, but it has no bearing on current culture and practices."

Sybil was silent for a moment. "Mary.."

"What?"

"First of all, there's a dead woman. I hope you're starting with how tragic you think this is. Second, he's your father. I mean it," she said before Mary could interrupt. "No matter what we're all feeling right now, it doesn't sound good if you talk about him as if he was just another managing director. Trust me. You'll be mauled for it."

They tried to maul her, and she shouldn't have been surprised, but in a way, it stung a bit, standing alone, taking questions after her brief speech. She was reminded of a newsreel of her great-grandmother, seated on the old dais behind Matthew Crawley during the announcement of the addition of William Thorpe. There was a question of which Lady Mary did not approve, and she shot of look of pure malice at someone in the audience. It made her laugh when she was small and they watched it on Christmas Eve at Downton Abbey, but now she felt a fierce kinship with her namesake having to face these people alone. She could see the U.S ticker, see the numbers slip as she spoke, and she answered the last question with her heart thumping.

* * *

><p>It hurt to watch, knowing even one-tenth of what she was feeling at that moment. Matthew's nails dug into his palms as she answered question after question, her voice far calmer than he imagined his own would be. His phone vibrated just as the stock took a downward turn at the NYSE, and he grimaced as he saw her eyes dart to the ticker he knew was against the back wall of that room.<p>

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"It's Sybil."

"Sybil?"

"Mary's sister."

"I know that. How did you get this number?"

"Really?"

"Really."

She sighed. "I should tell you I have my ways, but to be honest, I asked Mary for it. It's only if I can't reach her."

"You can't reach her because she's in the middle of the press conference."

"Shhhhh... Mary's talking."

They were silent for a full two minutes as Mary was asked a question she couldn't possibly answer. Matthew was tempted to email the editor at that particular publication and point out prior calculation failures by the reporter in question, but refrained and was relieved to see the press conference end and Mary walk out of the room with a neutral sort of smile on her face.

"Good," Sybil said. "She did that well."

"Yes," Matthew replied. "Did you need Mary?"

"No," Sybil said. "Felix is at work, and I didn't want to watch by myself." There was a pause. "I'm glad," she said. "You're good for each other. I'm glad about this."

"So am I."

She snorted, and it made him think of Alice. "I should hope so. Goodbye."

He telephoned his sister, who told him to tell Mary that whoever asked the LIBOR question out of left field should be put out of his misery and that she was happy to bury said journalist in her garden. "And why do they repeat questions? Asked and answered. That's what I say in supervisions."

"Alice, you're allowed to be impolitic. Mary is not."

"Things that are wrong in the world. Mary should be allowed to be anything she wants. Honestly, I want to punch that woman on Sky who's wondering if Mary's emotionally up to the task. Really? Emotionally?"

Matthew leaned back. "Alice, you need to meet Mary's sister."

* * *

><p>Aurelie condensed the late reporting into one document and sent it to Mary's iPad with a warning that some of it was absolute garbage, some of it was merely terrible, and only a bit of it might be true. She wrote the notes in wicked French, and Mary was thankful for being able to laugh for a moment before discovering that Alix Westfield had been been buried next to the abandoned stone cottage on the road to Downton, the same cottage past which she had driven a dozen times since the woman went missing in 2009. Her father had admitted to a short affair with the woman, but no more. Her phone, discovered with her body, had proved to be a gold mine filled with texts and phone messages. No one had known about this phone, no one had made a connection between the billionaire Rob Crawley and the young trader <em>only thirty-one, <em>and now it seemed there wasn't a reason to believe anything other than her threat to go public, evidenced by an exchange of rather heated texts and voicemails, had been the motive for murder. She looked at the picture of him, felt herself detach from the wave of sorrow that struck her heart at his face, at the hands she remembered holding hers, and she chose to ignore the doubt that began to gnaw at her mind.

She did not ignore Greg and Aurelie and let them put her in a car at eight that night, her head pounding and her body twitching with tiredness. The driver was a longtime employee, a familiar face who did not have to be told where to go, and so she closed her eyes against the sound of rain until the Range Rover pulled up to the dock and stopped. There had been no clamor of reporters, and the driver had not seen anyone on that back street. She wondered if Matthew had escaped after all as she rode the lift to the foyer, but when she opened the door to the smell of garlic and a soft Miles Davis soundtrack, she knew he was there.

* * *

><p>He did not expect a smile when she walked in, and the laugh that erupted from her at the sight of him in her kitchen was unexpected. "What?" he asked as she kicked off her shoes and leaned up for a kiss.<p>

"Nice shirt," she muttered against his neck.

"Aurelie did it on purpose," he said. "I hope you made her work today, because she clearly wasted time finding this."

"She sent you clothes?"

"I asked her to send something over. I wanted to take you out, but..."

"She knows." It wasn't a question.

"Does Greg?" She nodded. "Well, they are.. were.. good assistants. We're not nearly as clever as we thought. We both have messes on our hands. There's no point in secrecy anymore."

"Is it bad at Centerbank?"  
>"Worse than Crawley Martin Thorpe ever was." He held up a bottle of Aperol. "Want one?"<p>

"It's that bad?"

"Unreal." He popped the cork on the prosecco. "I can't go into details, but let's just say regulators haven't seen one-tenth of what they need to see. What they covered up..." He swirled the orange and pale gold liquids in three glasses and topped them off with Pellegrino. "The thing about Crawley Martin Thorpe... your father, Patrick, Rafe... nobody had enough time to really do heinous damage. This is thirty years in the making. This goes into the soul of this company."

"Or lack thereof," she said, and raised her glass. "To Alastair."

"Alastair. God, I miss him."

"So do I. Never more than today." She peered into the pan and sniffed appreciatively. "Don't spill any on that nice shirt."

Matthew groaned. "Part of me has to admire her dogged determination to get me something with this song title on it, and the other part wants me to tell you to fire her at the first opportunity."

Mary grinned, and picked a pepper out of the salad. "Well, if I have anything to say about my new operations analyst's future, it's true. You are never ever getting back together."

He smacked her hand away from the bowl and kissed her again. "What was the worst part?"

"Today? All of it. John saved me from biting off the heads of Williams and Wilson on the board call."

"You did well in the press conference. Alice says she'll kill the Handelsblatt reporter for you, and the one on Sky. And Sybil called."

"Oh, God. How many times?"

"Just once."

"Four times. I stopped picking up the phone."

"Sybil?" Eddie came in and picked up the third drink.

"She's going to go mad. The last message was something about the U.S election. I didn't even finish it." Mary knotted her hair and cracked her neck. "She's never been good at sitting still."

"Neither has Alice."

A peal of bells erupted from Mary's bag and Eddie grinned. "Who's going to answer it?"

* * *

><p>The sky was a deep blue-black, the stars bright enough to be seen over London, and they curled together on the terrace chaise, his hand tangled in her hair. "I like you barefoot in my kitchen," she murmured, and he laughed.<p>

"I'm afraid starting Monday you won't get me in there very often."

"S'all right," she replied. "Full tour?"

"Most of next week and into the following. New York, Asia, India..."

"And after that?"

His mouth brushed her forehead. "When I return, I want to take you to dinner."

"We've really gone all backwards on this. I didn't even get dinner before we..."

"Hey, we had room service."

"And we nearly crashed a plane." She nestled closer. "Regrets?"

"Not a one."

Eddie came out with a small canvas which she propped up in front of them. "Selfie Number Two," she proclaimed. "In the style of Robert Mapplethorpe."

"Most people just take photographs on their phones," Mary said.

"Boring," Eddie said. She pulled out an old Polaroid and snapped a picture of the two of them on the chaise. "Shake it, shake it," she whispered as she held it out of Mary's reach, watching the colours appear.

"Give it to me," Mary ordered, and grimaced at the sight.

"It's good," Eddie said. "A little like an outtake from an eighties horror prom film, but very paintable."

Matthew took the picture from Mary. "May I keep it?"

Eddie folded her arms. "You know how much an original EC goes for?"

"I made you dinner. Anyway, it's not signed."

She scratched the two letters onto the still-wet image. "I'm going to watch the news and drink every time they get something wrong. Want to join me?"

They did not drink or laugh during those first long minutes, watching their father escorted to and from court, listening to detectives and barristers discuss the case, and Mary looked at Eddie when Patrick suddenly appeared to tell his tales of suspicion of what was going on all those years ago. "Bastard," she heard Matthew whisper. Eddie said nothing. Mary was almost relieved to see the transition to the Crawley Martin Thorpe and Centerbank parts of the story, and to see that she looked more confident than she felt in that press conference.

"Bravo," Eddie murmured. Matthew squeezed her hand, and she felt lighter, happier, more herself as the newsreader began teasing the stories coming up.

"Don't turn it off," Eddie said as she sat up. "I want to see this."

Mary nodded and looked up at Matthew. "Night one," she said. "Still standing."

"Still standing."

She glanced back at the television. "Eddie, what is that?"

Eddie was silent.

"It's that Caravaggio that turned up in Berlin. The one they thought was destroyed." Matthew turned up the volume. "Saint Matthew and the Angel" or something."

"Saint Matthew," Mary murmured and poked Matthew in the ribs.

It cut to a reporter in front of a large building. "Museum officials suspected before the bombing it had been replaced by a copy, and now experts who've been analysing this painting are convinced they have the real thing." The reporter's voice was replaced by that of an old Italian man, his hands shaking in excitement. "The lines, the colours, the hyper-realism. No one else can do this. No one can capture _tenebroso_ like Caravaggio."

"_Tenebroso_? Dark?" Matthew asked.

"Mysterious and dark," Eddie said. "There's not an adequate English translation." She leaned forward, a smile beginning to break across her face as the old man continued talking next to the painting.

"There is nothing like him. Nothing," he said. "He is perfect. This is perfect."

"Perfect," Eddie whispered.

"Eddie loves Caravaggio," Mary said.

"It can't be real," Matthew said, as the screen showed the photographs of a destroyed museum, a black and white image of a tattered canvas in a frame, blackened and burned. "How can they be sure?"

"Age of the canvas. Type of paint, brush strokes, whether the craquelure is genuine, the methods of canvas preparation." Eddie laughed. "A dozen things could be wrong with it and they'd know instantly."

"So it's real?" Matthew asked.

"Didn't you hear the man? It's perfect." Eddie looked back at the screen. "Perfect."

Mary watched her sister's fingers fold around an imaginary paintbrush, watched her wrist flick and twist for a moment, and then looked at her sister's profile, at the smooth pale skin of her cheek. _The perfect side,_ she thought.

"Someone could forge that," Matthew said. "It could be possible."

"Not very many people," Mary said.

"One," Eddie said.

"If that," Mary replied.

"One did." Eddie poured another glass of prosecco.

"So it's not real?"

Eddie looked up at Matthew, and Mary was reminded of a girl of four drawing like no child should, a teenager who would listen to no master when it came to her art, of the mute woman who painted things no one had ever seen. She remembered all the moments when Eddie was not her little sister, not a child, but something otherworldly, the nights watching her in the hospital when she would leave an ethereal sketch on a lab report, days in the flat when she would prop herself against a wall to paint, or lie on the floor with scissors and glue and her cast and put together things that made her laugh and cry. She remembered the feeling she had when Eddie showed her _Hood,_ the unease, the cold, the... She had never thought this before, but she knew it now as she watched Eddie's eyes flash grey and green, knew that even as she loved her sister fiercely and unconditionally, she feared her.

_In the style of Robert Mapplethorpe, in the style of Picasso, in the style of style of style... _"Eddie..."

"Of course it's not real," Eddie said. "I painted it."

**TBC**


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Thanks for your patience. Sorry about that delay. A lot of work and news. Thanks as always to Eolivet for the beta and ARCurren for listening to my plotting. _

_The soundtrack: Enjoy the Silence. Scala version. _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 27<strong>

There was glass on the floor and no air in the room. Mary's hands did not know what to do. "What do you mean, you painted it?"

Eddie did not answer as she stood up and limped to the kitchen to find a dustpan and brush. The television droned on, the newsreader introducing a sidebar about theft and forgery _crimes costing upward of three billion pounds a year worldwide, fourth on the list of Interpol's top criminal enterprises. _

_Criminal._

"Eddie." She could feel hands on her arms, and the sense of being restrained irritated her. She flung herself away from him and toward her sister, who was placidly cleaning up the mess left from Mary's glass. "What did you do?"

"I told you," Eddie said with a trace of annoyance. "I painted it."

"When?"

"Before."

"Why?"

Eddie shrugged.

"You didn't need the money, surely?"

"It wasn't for money."

"Was it just the Caravaggio?" Mary had forgotten Matthew was there.

"Sargent, mostly. Some Caillebotte. I did a Picasso once. Whatever they asked for."

"Who is 'they,' Eddie?"

Eddie fell silent again as she swept up the last of the glass, tipped it into the rubbish bin, and put back the brush and dustpan. "I don't know," she finally said. "They were people Mark knew."

It had been suppressed so long that the scream of rage reverberated against the walls before Mary could stop it. She had known there was something wrong about Mark, something wrong about all the people around Eddie, how she had sensed he wanted to possess her and now she _knew... _"How many, Eddie?"

"I don't kno..."

"How... many...?" Mary's voice could barely be heard. "More than ten?"

"More than ten."

"I'm not going to guess. How many?"

"At least thirty. Probably forty."

Mary shuddered. "Where?"  
>"Wherever they were wanted."<p>

"Private collectors?"

"Of course."

"Did they know"

Eddie sighed, a maddening sound. "That's the point."

"Museums?"

"A couple."

Mary still could not believe it. "Why?"

Eddie lifted her old stick, the one she stole from the Dower House long before her accident and traced the silver handle with her fingertips. "Because I can," she whispered.

* * *

><p>"What was Eddie like?<p>

"Like?" Percy twined his hand around Holly's and pulled her back into the couch. "When?"

"When you were children. Before the accident." She let her lips linger against his temple, her breath ruffling his hair. "When she talked."

Percy sighed. "When we were children? The worst thing you could do to her was leave her without something with which to make art."

Holly snorted.

"What?"

"You and your fear of prepositions. Go on." She stretched out on top of him just as he kissed her.

"You and your ways of making me happy," he muttered.

"Go on," she insisted.

"She'd make anything, draw anything. Potatoes at dinner, she'd sculpt them. She'd mash half her peas to make pea glue and stack them into a perfect pyramid. She turned a steak into a fish skeleton on her plate. There are things all over Downton she carved with a knife, or painted... I wish we'd had mobile phone cameras. She was exceptional and Mary..."

"Mary what?"

"Mary loved her so much. Loves her... I don't mean she doesn't love Sybil. The three of them are so close. It's that Mary pushed and encouraged and loved... And then..." He shuddered. "When their mother died, it was as if..."

Holly let him be silent, his hand stroking her back. "It broke them all in different ways. Sybil was furious, Mary was quiet... too quiet. Eddie just... went wild. The only person who could make her do anything was Mary. Sybil tried when they were both at Rosey together, but she had her own troubles and Eddie gradually slipped away and not even all the attention Mary rained on her could pull her back. She got kicked out of Rosey, out of the Royal College of Art, out of the Courtauld Institute... no money or promises could keep her in."

"Drugs?"

Percy shook his head. "Just behaviour. She wouldn't listen to anyone, wouldn't follow rules, wouldn't do the work. And then she met Mark, and she calmed down."

"They were engaged?"

"Until he saw her in the hospital and he couldn't look at her at first. She was pretty banged up, and after he... she didn't want to see him again."

"What was Mark like?"

Percy sighed. "Like all the rest of the people with whom we grew up." He grinned at himself. "Posh overbred bastard. I thought he was better than most, and he seemed quite desperate to get her back, but I think it was probably for the best. She seems happier now without him."

"What happened with their father?"

Percy twirled a piece of her hair around his finger. "Rob was.. is.. useless."

"Because of Charlotte?"

"She didn't help matters by insinuating herself between him and the girls, and Rob did nothing to make it better."

Holly propped herself up on his chest. "It can't have been easy for him."

"Holly..."

"I'm not making excuses for him. But when my father died.." Her voice hitched and Percy kissed her nose. "It took me years to understand that my mother lost him too."

* * *

><p>"You're not in much of a position to make demands."<p>

Rob remembered why he had toyed with firing this solicitor last year. "I don't think I'm being all that demanding."

"Specific requests sound like demands." He leaned back in the hard metal chair and frowned. "And I think you should let it play out. You might not lose anything."

"I only want those things," Rob said. "Your only job is to make sure I get those things."

"She won't get Downton. You've already tied that up. Your pre-nup establishes the money. I'm not sure why you want..."

"I don't care if she takes Grantham House. I'll give it to her. I just want the contents. Specifically I want every family portrait and photograph. And the painting."

"Just the one?"

He nodded. "Just the one. She can't have it."

"She'll fight for it."

"I don't care." Rob folded his arms across his chest.

The man shrugged. "You expressed no interest in any of the art she accumulated during the marriage. I distinctly recall your fury at the idea she would spend six million pounds on a new artist. And yet you want it now? Is this how you want to punish her?"

"I'm not punishing her," Rob replied. He lifted the newspaper from the solicitor's briefcase, ignoring the sharp rap on the glass from the guard.

"The stock was down, but not too badly. The crisis management team..."

Rob did not hear him. He saw only the photo of a painting, and heard only the voice of Patrick.

* * *

><p>The food was magnificent, the result of their last bet, but Aurelie did not taste a thing, residual bitterness still between them. It infuriated her to see that it did not seem to bother him in the slightest as he raved about his food, ordered a dessert wine for both of them when he knew she hated them, and ignored her when she pushed away her tart.<p>

"Coffee?"

"No thank you." The waiter's look of disapproval at the untouched plate was rewarded with a glare so fierce he visibly flinched.

"Don't take it out on him." Greg lifted the spoon to his mouth and uttered a groan that made her want to scream. "Your propensity to sulk is causing you to miss out on an epic dessert."

"I'm not sulking."

"Yes, you are. I don't know about what, but you're sulking." He watched as the frown between her eyes faded and she gave him a weak smile.

"I'm not," she repeated. "I think I'm just sad that this is ending."

"It's not ending, you idiot. We're just doing different things."

"It's different."

He grinned at her and pushed his plate to her. "Have some. It is different. We have to change or we'll just wither and die."

She let out a little moan of her own at the taste. "You've always been able to do that."

"So have you."

Aurelie put down the fork. "This is different. I will never have another partner in crime."

"I'm still your partner."

"Please. You'll be traveling the world teaching our people how to be better Crawley Martin Thorpe employees and I'll be left in London trying to.. what is the word? Nitpick?" She smiled. "I will nitpick the day-to-day operations to find every inefficiency."

"Will you nitpick my presentation for me?" He lifted her hand and kissed it. "I need an honest assessment of whether I sound like a cheerleader or not."

"Since I have never actually witnessed cheerleading, I am not necessarily the best choice." She put his hand against her cheek. "Am I forgiven?"

"For what?"

"Not telling you about them."

He let his thumb trace her cheek before his hand fell. "There was nothing to forgive. I couldn't have told you if I'd known."

She nodded. "Where will you go first?"

"Tokyo," he said, and his voice shook.

They were silent, and this time she smiled at the waiter as he brought Greg's espresso, and she asked for her own. No one spoke as they sipped, listening to the murmurs around them, smiling at shared amusement, until the cups were cleared and Greg threw down his credit card.

"Will you?" Aurelie's voice was low.

"Will I what?"

"Will you do what you promised in Tokyo? For him?"

"Of course," he said automatically.

"Greg," she began.

He stood up. "Do you want to get a Scotch? I think I'd like a Scotch."

She rose and let him lead her down the stairs and through the doors to the dark lair where they had ordered Scotch a dozen times before, and no one had to ask that he wanted a Lagavulin and that she would nurse a Talisker. Again they were quiet, again they listened to the conversations of others, and she let him think on what she had asked.

"The thing is," he finally said, when his glass was empty and hers barely touched. "What then? Once I do it, once I eat that meal and make that toast, is it over?"

"I don't know, Greg."

He flexed his neck. "It's time, isn't it? For me to let go?"

"I can't tell you that." She watched his mouth twitch, watched him swallow back tears. "You loved him."

"I did. I do. Aurelie..."

"You were denied the right to say goodbye to him. At the hospital and at the funeral, Greg." She took his hand. "Human tradition matters."

"I didn't fit into their idea of tradition. Their own son didn't fit."

"You can't change that."

"No, I can't."

She smiled suddenly, and the radiance of it made him smile in response. "What is it?"

Aurelie took his hand. "You usually tell me it's not fair."

"It isn't fair."

"No, it isn't, but nothing's fair. You were in love and he died too young. It was an accident. He did everything right and the crash still killed him. And in a kinder world, his family would have understood that you had as much right to mourn him publicly as they did. But that didn't happen, and you went on to make half a life for yourself. It's an unbelievable life, one anyone would be proud of, but you need to make it your life alone. You said it. We have to change."

"Change," he sighed. "So many things we were going to do to change the lives we were given. He never even got out of town."

"But you did. Keep giving him that. He wouldn't want you to do anything less, or rather, I assume he wouldn't. I never had the pleasure of meeting him."

"I love you," he said. "Stewart would have loved you."

"Of course he would have. I love you." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "So go to Tokyo, go to that nameless place and sit back for an omakase you both would have loved. Raise your sake to the sky and remember him. Then for God's sake, just live. Please."

"I will. Thank you."

"And thank God you're leaving so I can stop drinking Scotch."

* * *

><p><em>Floodgates,<em> Matthew thought as he stared at Mary's face. _Frying pan, fire._

Eddie was painting, using watercolours on peculiar paper, matching words to brushstrokes. "Light first, always the light first. Then the shadows. Decide on wet or dry shadows. Sargent did dry brush on some, wet brush on others." It materialized as she spoke, rough patches turning into pools of light and shadow, a pair of young women, one reclining under a silk parasol, and as she blew gently at the bristles of one old brush, Matthew saw the painting begin to come to life, as real as if it had been painted by a master.

"I've seen that one," he said.

"You've seen one like it," she corrected. "This isn't real."

"Is that how you justify this to yourself?" Mary pushed herself away from the wall. "You tell yourself it's not real so it doesn't matter that you're committing fraud?"

Eddie picked up another brush, smeared it with black, and scrawled a word across the reclining girl's face, and Matthew remembered, turned to the wall of photographs and sketches and read the word again.

"Criminal," he said.

Eddie tore up the still-wet paper and put it into a bowl in the studio sink, methodically swishing it until it turned to pulp. "Of a sort," she said. "Am I actually hurting anyone?"

Mary opened her mouth and shut it again. A laugh, unbidden and unexpected, suddenly bubbled up in her chest and she could not stop it. "No blood, no foul?" she asked.

"Maybe," Eddie said.

"These are the things you burned in Lourmarin? The canvases, the brushes, the paper?"

"Yes."

"Evidence?"

"Of my being a master? Yes." Eddie began cleaning the brushes.

"Of fraud." Mary took the battered palette and wiped the mixing area carefully with water.

"You remember how to do that," Eddie said softly.

"I was taught by a master," Mary bit back.

They were silent. Matthew knew better than to speak as the sisters cleaned the work area silently, and the air grew warmer. Mary's cheeks were pink with fury, and Eddie's lips quivered every time she looked at her sister, but neither would meet the other's eyes.

"I can't win," Mary said, just as a mobile ringtone shattered the air.

Matthew pulled it out of his pocket. "Yes?"

"Where are you?" Ben's sharp voice was loud enough for all to hear. "On second thought, don't tell me. I still need plausible deniability."

Matthew walked back into the kitchen. "What is it?"

"Consider it a warning. Dany at FT is getting suspicious about Centerbank timing. I think someone may have told her about Mary's coup d'état."

"It wasn't a coup d'état."

"A putsch, then. Seriously, she's sniffing and I doubt they've sealed Patrick up enough not to talk. Just be careful."

"May I ask you a legal question?"

"Hourly rate?"

"Jesus, Ben."

Ben laughed. "I go by the book. Hourly rate starts now."

"What's the usual sentence for a forger?" He waited. "Ben?"

"What kind of forger?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, if you're telling me you forged a signature..." He broke off. "Wait. Where are you?"

"I thought you didn't want to know."

"You're at Mary's. Oh, my God. Holy shit." He laughed again. "That's what she meant. I knew it. KNEW IT. She's a fucking genius. The Carav.. No, wait. Can you bring her here?"

"Here?"

"My place. It's better if we do this in person."

Matthew could hear the laugh echo. "In person?"

"It's complicated. Trust me, it's very complicated."

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because it's also pretty fantastic, to be honest." Matthew could hear soft clicks on a computer keyboard. "Can you get her here today? It's better the faster we do this."

"Why did you call again?"

"To tell you about Dany. Also to ask you to come over for a drink. Come over for a drink. Bring Mary and Eddie." The line went dead and Matthew put the phone back in his pocket just as the voices in the studio grew louder.

"I can embezzle and I don't do it. I can cheat on taxes and I don't do it. I can do a lot of things, Eddie, but I don't do them because they're wrong. Do you understand me? I can't accept your answer."

"You don't do what you can. You do what you're good at, and for you, that's being right. It's always being right." Eddie put away the last of the secret brushes and padlocked the cabinet door.

"You can paint your own works. That's what you do now, isn't it?" Mary waved at the monstrous canvas in the middle of the studio. "That's what you always did. Why would you even consider... Was this Mark? Did Mark force you?"

Eddie's eyes glazed over. "No," she whispered.

_It began as a game. She had fooled him with a simple watercolour, and then when he asked for more, she did them without asking questions as to where they went. "Picasso?" he wondered, and so she gave him something penciled and rough, resembling the sketches of his childhood, drawn on the very paper he would have used, discovered in someplace far away, and again and again, she did not ask questions. _

_She only became uneasy that chilly spring evening in Lourmarin, when Mary was delayed and Sybil wasn't coming, when Mark appeared with two men, who did not speak, but only watched as she, helplessly in love with Mark, assessed the canvas they had brought, the paints and varnishes, primers and brushes, and it was her turn to only nod as they left. She painted at night, by candlelight, the beeswax slowly melting as she created her masterpiece. Mary knew not to come in unless invited, and if she wondered why Eddie never called her in, she did not ask. _

"No," Eddie repeated. "No one forced me. I just... wanted to do it."

"You don't see that it's wrong?"

"Don't talk to me as if I'm a child!"

"You are a child! This is what Maman didn't want for you, for Sybil, for me. We were not to be these spoilt, overprivileged children who did whatever we wanted!"

"Maman is dead," Eddie hissed. "And what is your affair with Matthew, but a spoilt, overprivileged child doing whatever the hell she wants?"

"That's different."

"It might be now that he's gone from Crawley Martin Thorpe, but it wasn't different. And if I'm found out, I don't take down a corporation."

"It wouldn't have..." Mary took a deep breath. "It's done now. What are we going to do about you?"

"Stop trying to save me."

"You need saving."

"Fuck off, Mary." When her sister did not move, she tried it again.

**FUCK OFF, MARY. **

"I'm not leaving until we decide what to do."

Eddie's fingers banged on the keys. **THERE'S NO 'WE' IN THIS. GET OUT. **

He tried not to listen, but he had heard most of it, and when Mary emerged, he held out his hand. She let her own fingers dance in his before she wandered into the kitchen.

"I'm not telling Sybil," she said. "At least not until I have to."

Matthew followed her. "Are you all right?"

"No," she said. "I've just learned I was a failure at parenting my own sister."

"Mary, it's not your fault."

She sighed and pulled out a bottle of champagne. "What was it? In success you deserve it and in defeat, you need it. Something like that." She felt the neck for the muselet opening, but stopped and put it back. "This is neither. What was the call? Or should I ask?"

"Ben. Mary..."

"I assume you heard all of that?"

He nodded.

"She's right, of course. We were stupid, you and I, stupid and spoiled and entitled."

"Mary, Ben was calling about... well, that, actually."

"The painting?"

"No, the FT is wondering about the Centerbank timing."

Mary's head collapsed onto her arms on the counter. "Bloody fucking hell. Well, we asked for it."

"I think we're all right. I don't think it's us as much as you. Coup was the word he used."

"Ugh," she said, her voice still muffled by her arms. "What else?"

"I asked him about forgery."

Her head flew up. "Matthew, no."

"He knows about it, Mary. He's a collector, he's a brilliant solicitor, he can..."

"Damn it, Matthew, it's not your business!"

"He says it's better the faster we handle it. I trust him, Mary. I've known him for a long time. You should trust him in this." She was furious, more so than he had ever seen, and yet as she breathed, he saw it sink it, saw that she had heard him. "Mary, please let me help. Let him help."

Her eyes went past him and to the wall. "Christ, you're so like him."

He turned and glimpsed an old photograph of Matthew and Lady Mary Crawley. "Are you telling me you were attracted to your great-grandfather?"

She laughed, and he felt the air clear a bit. "No, you idiot. It's not that, it's the... Granny Violet tells stories of his patience and reason. Sometimes we Crawley women need to hear it. Sometimes we don't." Her eyes flicked to the studio door. "Eddie won't hear reason."

"Mary, she didn't mean it."

"Yes, she does. That's the thing, Matthew. We mean what we say. All of us. That's the promise we made to each other after... after Rob married Charlotte. We will mean what we say."

"Why then?"

"Papa said we came first in his head. But of course we didn't." A crash from the studio made them both jump. "If you think she should see Ben, you go tell her."

The crash turned out to be a broken champagne bottle, and Eddie was trying it out as a paint delivery system when he walked in without knocking. She flung scoops of acrylic at a door-sized canvas, and Matthew couldn't help but laugh at the _splat _as each landed.

"That's terrible," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "Did she send you in here?"

"I sent myself. Ben wants to talk to you about the Caravaggio."

She stopped and put down the broken glass. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. I only asked a question about forgery. He's quite clever."

"I gave him some clues," she replied. "So he's not quite as clever as you think."

"He wants to help."

"Why do you all think I need help?"

"Because this could be a mess and you should always be prepared for a mess." He sat down and folded his arms.

"Were you two prepared for your mess?" She picked up the bottle and began flinging paint again.

"Not very well," he said. "That's why I want you to have the best in your corner."

"What makes you think anyone will figure it out? It's perfect. Didn't you hear them?" She threw a large chunk of Prussian blue at the canvas and it broke into a veined, curved, almost-face.

"People must know about it, Eddie." He looked up at her wall of jagged photographs and papers, prints and Polaroids, and the bloodiest one caught his eye.

_In the car with Patrick..._

"I think Patrick knows," he said, and watched the words wreck Eddie.

**TBC**


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Thanks for your patience, thanks to Eolivet and ARCurren. Soundtrack is "Sly II" from Craig Armstrong's The Space Between Us._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 28<strong>

She sensed the agony before she heard Eddie's wail, and Mary ran into the studio just as her sister dropped to the floor like a child. For the second time in as many days, she held her sister as she screamed, only this time it was words _Patrick told Papa._

"Christ," Matthew muttered.

Mary's arms tightened. "Told him what?" she whispered against Eddie's ear.

"Painting," Eddie gasped.

_Patrick knew. Papa knew... _Her stomach turned at the possibilities and Mary looked to Matthew, whose own mind was turning over the same thoughts. "Matthew."

"Patrick," he said as he stood up and walked into the other room.

_Patrick told me you were a murderer. _Her sister's words to their father in that cold room. _Patrick knew. Patrick knew everything._

_Not everything._

Matthew came back into the room and slipped his phone into his pocket. "We should go," he said. "Ben's waiting."

"Ben?" Mary asked. "For what?"

"To handle this," Matthew muttered. "He says the sooner the better."

"Handle." It was not a question. "It's not his problem."

"You think you can handle this, Mary?"

There were no words for some time. Eddie's sobs softened into sniffs, and still no one spoke until a light, insistent buzzing came from Matthew's pocket, and it was Eddie who held out her hand for the phone, took it, and walked into the other room.

Mary said nothing. The music in the room was discordant and too quiet to hear, and Matthew looked for a way to turn it up or off, but found nothing.

"iPad," Mary said. "It's on the iPad."

It was attached to the wall, and he killed the music, putting them into total silence in that vast room. "Mary..."

"Don't," she said. "It's.."

"I know," he said.

She wheeled on him. "No, you don't know." She picked up the broken bottle and ran her finger along the edge, and Matthew's heart jumped in his chest. "Papa let Eddie suffer and Eddie knew what he was doing." The paint rolled onto her palm, and she pushed it around with the glass, letting it sink into the lines. "Eddie let him get away with..." She stood up and planted her palm against the canvas, leaving a dark blue print against the white. "I ruined it, Eddie," she called out and went to the sink.

Eddie only glanced at it as she returned and handed the mobile back to Matthew. "Let's go," she said.

"Eddie," Mary began.

"I want to talk to him." She turned to Matthew. "He says he was the anonymous buyer of that Klimt that sold last year. Is it true?"

Matthew shrugged. "If so, I haven't seen it."

She frowned. "He said he wouldn't tell me anything until I came over to see it."

"Clever." Mary's voice shook.

"All right," Eddie said after a moment in which the two sisters looked anywhere but at each other. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>It glowed, as all Klimts do, and Eddie's face shimmered in the lighting as she stopped within inches of the canvas and tilted her head to look at the brushstrokes. Her fingers twitched as she pored over every inch of canvas. She pulled a small sketchbook from her bag and took notes, <em>brush angles, leaf <em>_application,__ colour __blend different __proportion. _She drew circles and lines, maths problems, and through all of it, Ben watched with a mixture of awe and joy that Matthew had never seen on the face of his friend.

"You shouldn't hang it next to that," she finally said after twenty minutes of silence. "It spoils the view."

Ben looked up at _Hood_ and grinned. "I think it's appropriate. So, are you prepared to copy a Klimt now?"

Eddie's smile disappeared, a flicker of fear crossing the grey eyes, and Ben put out his hand. "I'm joking," he said. "I just have a few questions to ask you about the Caravaggio. If that's all right?"

Eddie nodded and looked at Mary.

"Did you accept money for the painting?"

She shook her head.

"When you gave up custody of your work, was it to a person who knew it was a fake?"

Eddie nodded.

"Who was it?"

"Mark," she whispered. "My fiance."

"So when Mark took it from you, the two of you knew it to be a copy?"

"Yes."

"Was anyone else with him?"

She nodded again. "There were two men with him when he brought me the canvas. He came alone with a lorry to the farm once it was dry enough to move. It needed more time to cure correctly to show the age, but he insisted on moving it sooner."

"Was that the last time you saw it?"

"Until tonight, yes."

His face exploded in a laugh, and his fists pumped the air. "Mary, I need you to fire me."

Mary's head whipped around. "Fire you?"

"I want to be your sister's lawyer. If she'll have me."

"Ben, I.."

"So I do need a lawyer." Eddie's voice trembled.

"Everyone needs a lawyer," Ben replied. "But it's not because you're a criminal. You've committed no crime... well, not a serious one in the eyes of the law, anyway."

Matthew stared at Ben. "She forged a painting."

"No," Ben said. "She copied a painting. There's no actual crime in copying, only in passing it off as an original. She never did that. Did you?" He turned back to Eddie. "Ever? Did you ever knowingly sell something that was a fake?"

She did not move for a moment, her grey eyes wide, her mouth quivering.

"Eddie." Mary took her sister's hand. "Did you?"

Eddie started to cry. "No," she said. "I never took money. I didn't need money. And Mark always knew. And those men..."

"They're the criminals. You just painted something. They committed the fraud."

"Holy shit," Matthew said.

Ben threw his hands up in the air. "Amazing, right? You can paint a thousand copies, but the crime is in selling or passing them off as real."

"Forty-three," Eddie whispered. "I've painted forty-three."

"You're fired," Mary said.

* * *

><p>"I need to see Sybil," Eddie announced as they stepped back into the car. "I'm driving over there later."<p>

"Eddie, don't put that on her," Mary said, the first words she'd spoken in nearly an hour.

"I'll make her Lavinia swear," Eddie said. "Anyway, she ought to know and Felix..." She shuddered. "I need to tell him everything." She picked at the dashboard. "He'll drop me. You know how he is about fraud."

"You're not the one who committed it," Matthew said.

She rolled her eyes. "Not technically, apparently, but to act as if I didn't know what was up?"

"He won't drop you. You're family," Mary muttered. "Are you going to stay there tonight?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I don't care what you do," Mary said. "Just let me know so I can make plans."

The silence grew awful again, and Matthew was grateful for the moment when the elevator doors reopened on Mary's flat and Eddie disappeared into the studio. "You did ruin it," he heard her call out, and he sighed as he turned to see Mary pouring Campari and vodka into a glass.

"It's five o'clock in the morning," he said.

"It's brunch time somewhere," she replied. "Do you want one?" At his silence, she rolled her eyes and picked up the Pellegrino. "I read somewhere this is what Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor used to drink," she muttered. "And I should quite like to be that drunk."

"Mary..."

"All of it for nothing," she said. She took a sip and grimaced.

"What do you mean?"

She handed him the glass, and he sipped from it, the bitter colliding with the bubbles and he frowned. "No wonder they fought so much."

She laughed a bit then, which was a relief to his ears. "Patrick must have held it over her. Threatened her, did all the things Patrick did... Christ." She slammed down the glass. "That's why she was in the bloody car. Oh, God. And Papa..."

_I can't stop him. _

_I won't be there to help with Patrick anymore._

It began to sink in then, this idea that had been gnawing away at her for days, months, _years to be honest,_ that something about her father had not seemed right. The feeling did not abate, not even when Matthew wrapped his arms around her, not even when he carried her to bed and tucked her in, and not even when he brought her the drink without question and put it by her bed.

She did not touch it again.

* * *

><p>Percy's eyes scanned the object on the table. The last arguments in his own mind against his actions had faded hours ago. There was a process, one he designed and signed off on, and yet here he was, ready to do it. He took a sip of tea, shrugged his shoulders, and connected Patrick's hard drive. "I am within my right as head of technologies," he said to himself as he easily decrypted the files. "We owned this machine."<p>

"Machine?" Holly picked up his tea and took a sip. "Machine?"

"I'm old-fashioned," he said, not looking up. "Why are you up? It's not even six-thirty."

"Waiting for an email," she said laconically, and turned on the kettle. "What are you doing?"

He sighed. "So I'm supposed to wait until the formal investigation to pick through Patrick's hard drive, but I didn't want to wait."

"Isn't that some sort of FSA violation?"

"No, it's a Percy Martin rule violation." He scanned the list of files, highlighting ones with additional encryption. "But there's too much at stake right now to wait. I need to know.." He stopped and clicked on a folder which promptly disappeared. "Ugh. He's one of those people." He went back to the main screen and kept looking.

"What are you looking for?"

"Proof," Percy replied.

"Of what?"

"Anything," he muttered. "Bollocks."

* * *

><p>"Are you fucking kidding me?"<p>

"Calm down, Sybil."

"I will not _calm down._" Her voice cracked and Eddie realized Mary had probably been right after all. "You don't just drop something like that and tell me to calm down. You don't just waltz in here _talking_ as if the last three and a half years didn't happen and then inform me that you are the source of the biggest story to hit the art world since... Fuck, I don't know. I don't follow art."

"I do." Felix's voice was colder than his wife's. "You're much prettier than Mark Landis and far more talented, but it's still... I mean, when van Meegeren did it, they forced him to forge another just to prove it. I'm terrified to see what you'd turn out. Are you trying to beat Shaun Greenhalgh's record?" He held up his hands. "Do you know why the assholes forge works? Because their originals are shit. Yours aren't. They've never been. The sketches you did when you were eleven were.. Eddie, you're a genius. Why did you need to do this?"

"Because I could."

"That," he said quietly. "You sound like every one of the little jackasses in New York I left behind. Rich kids making art. They did everything because they could without consequence. You'll suffer nothing, but for me? I make my living on trust." His voice rose and he walked to the window, away from them. "I have to be trusted. When I say something is real..."

"You've never been involved in any of my.."

"It doesn't matter!" Felix went into his study and shut the door.

"Perception matters," Sybil said. She held out her arms to Eddie, who hesitated before hugging her sister. "It will matter. He's worked very hard to earn his reputation. He'll have to work doubly hard to maintain it after this."

"I'm sorry," Eddie mumbled.

"Apologize to him, not me," Sybil said. "I'm furious with you, but now that it's sunk in, I'm a little intrigued."

"I haven't.. not since Mark."

"Fucker," Sybil said placidly. "I knew I hated him."

Eddie looked toward the study. "What's he doing?"

"If I know my husband, he's double-checking the provenance of every one of his current pieces." Eddie burst into tears and Sybil held her closer. "Stop it. At least you've told him. He'll have time to work out what to do. I imagine you'll become very popular very quickly."

"Or sink like a stone." Eddie wiped her eyes.

"How did you do it?"

"I don't know," Eddie said. "I just could."

* * *

><p>This time, it was not through the basement, but through the front door. There was no lawyer to steer her through, no private entrance so no one would know. Mary sat in the hard chair at the table, waiting, not sure he would want to see her, and she was more than a little surprised when, a scant five minutes after she'd been admitted, the door opened and Rob walked in. He sat down without looking at her, head slightly bowed, as if awaiting more of what she'd said before, and for the first time in years, to look upon him was painful in all the ways that did not point to hate.<p>

"Did you see the story about the Caravaggio?" she began.

He flinched, but did not look up.

"I don't think it's real. Ben's quite an expert on these sorts of things." His hands began to shake, and again it hurt. "But the funny thing is, there's no actual crime in copying a painting. Only being the one to pass it off as real. Or sell it. There's no crime. You'd never think that, would you?"

"No crime?" he repeated softly.

"Not really," she said. "Not anything serious. Nothing to worry about."

Rob laughed, a short, odd sound. "Nothing to worry about. Not even the cover-up?"

"It's never the crime," she said.

"It's always the cover-up," he finished, and this time, it was his laugh, the one she knew as well as her own breath, deep, booming, contagious, and she could not help herself as she began to laugh as well, just as he looked at her, grey eyes on brown. His eyes were the first to well up, tears streaming down his cheeks as he kept laughing, and she started to cry as well, even as her chest heaved with giggles, her breath lost in the moment.

And it was her hand that reached across and took his, and his breath hitched in the middle of the laugh.

"Oh, Mary," he said, and they were silent.

"No touching," the disembodied voice of the guard droned.

He let go and raised his hands, and she burst out laughing. "No touching," she called out, and she remembered that as much as she looked like her mother, she had his smile. "Papa.."

"Don't," he said.

"All that time," she replied.

"I thought... Never mind. Not now," he said. "How's work?"

_A warning, _she thought. _Change the subject. _ "It's all right. The board is being the board. Childish as usual."

He nodded. "I don't suppose you've thought about switching up the risk team?"

"I have some new blood coming up. You remember Thandie?"

"Remember her? I brought her in." He leaned back. "I wanted smart people around to protect our best interests."

She did not answer. His eyes stayed on hers, and she let her suspicions rise to the surface.

"I brought Greg in as well. I think protecting the Crawley interests should be a priority," he murmured. "I hope you agree."

"It's usually the right thing," she said slowly. "Sometimes, it ends up being the wrong thing for all the right reasons."

"I hope not permanently wrong."

_Careful, _she thought. _So careful here, they're recording this, so careful now. Did you do all this to protect our baby Eddie? What of Charlotte, of those years? What of me and Patrick? What of Maman?_

"You're so like her," he said.

"Maman?" she whispered.

"No. Yes, but.. Grandmama," he said. "Even when you were small. You were such a tough little girl. You never needed anyone."

"Like Lady Mary?" Her voice went high. "You hated her."

"It's a compliment, Mary. And no, I didn't, not once I paid attention. We made our peace."

"How?"

His eyes clouded. "She loved your mother," he said finally.

* * *

><p>"You have to tell her."<p>

Percy wiped his mouth and shuddered again. She handed him the glass of water and stroked his hair gently. "I can't," he finally said. "How do I tell her what Patrick's been doing all these years?"

"Do you want me to do it? The police are going to have to know. It's illegal."

He looked at the computer screen. "It's all illegal, but... Holly... he didn't just stalk her."

"I know."

"Twenty years of photographs. Twenty years, Holly."

"I know." She picked up her mobile. "You need to turn this in as soon as possible and you need to tell Mary and Sybil and Eddie what's happened. You have no idea how many copies there are or what else he's done to those photographs."

"Oh, Christ," he muttered.

* * *

><p>She sat in the car park for twenty minutes, eyes glazed, not seeing concrete and steel, but the halls of Crawley Martin Thorpe, her father's office, the days following the launch of the FSA investigation, when her father turned on her.<p>

_Blackmail. __Crime. Cover__-up._

She wanted Matthew, needed to talk this out with him, to make it real, to make it make sense, but she knew she could not burden him with this. It wasn't his fight, and he would need plausible deniability going forward. They both would, if they were to continue this.

But she needed to talk, needed to see if she was right, and there was only one person alive who could possibly help, possibly tell her if she was right. She dialed the number and listened to the ring go on and on before an ancient voice informed her that yes, Mrs. Martin was at home.

"Of course you must come up," Granny Violet said with a chuckle. "I feel quite honored, my dear. We'll have a lovely weekend."

"I don't want to trouble you," Mary said.

"Nonsense. I can avoid all my friends this way."

She texted Matthew, who replied _give her my love, _and it wasn't until she started the Shelby that she realized she'd thought _if __we continue..._

**TBC**


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Thanks to ARCurren for sitting with me in pubs while editing this.. and to Eolivet for talking me through the desire to off another character. WAGs stands for "wives and girlfriends" if you're not familiar with the joys of tabloid press. _

_The song is Thom Yorke's "Black Swan." _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 29<strong>_**  
><strong>_

There was a policeman guarding the old cottage, and crime scene tape wrapped around the trees, and Mary tried not to look at the hole next to the stone wall, tried not to think of Alix's face as she sped past. She turned at the narrow gate and stopped the car in front of the Dower House just as Violet emerged, her face wreathed in smiles. "My darling girl," she called out. "Tea?"

Nothing had changed in the house, save for the wiring that brought it into the twenty-first century. An elderly man brought the tea and Violet poured it, handing the cup to Mary with a naughty smile. "I had no idea _The Economist_ was going in for cleavage."

"I'm told it's selling well," Mary remarked dryly as she glanced down at the cover.

"In my day," Violet began and then laughed. "No, that's not fair at all. You look lovely and I'm very proud of what you've done. All of it." She picked up her own cup. "I wish Alastair was here to see it."

Mary's eyes stung. "He could explain a lot."

"About your father?"

Mary nodded.

"It's like the moral fiber was bred out of him by that mother of his. Or something. My father.." Violet's cup shook. "Never mind my father-in-law. Or my husband. Or Alastair."

Mary nodded. She looked at the cup _my great-grandmother drank here. _The clock chimed _Lady Mary heard that clock. _"Granny Violet, what happened when my mother died?"

* * *

><p>Alice lowered herself into the chair. "Not soon enough," she muttered. She picked up a sheaf of papers and groaned. "I should have taken leave sooner instead of agreeing to read these... travesties."<p>

Matthew took it from her, scanned the first page and laughed. "I don't remember being this terrible when I was a first year."

"You were," she said, and took it back. "Trust me. I'm still not sure you can write an adequate essay."

"Yes, but could you run a multinational investment bank?" Daniel slung his bag over the back of the chair and kissed Alice.

"How hard can it be? Pretend you know what you're talking about and hope you've guessed correctly," she snapped back.

"She's not wrong," Matthew said. "Although there is calculus and being nice to people, two things she's never been that good at."

"You can feed yourself." Alice folded her arms.

"You weren't going to cook anyway," Daniel said. "I brought home some steaks. Matthew, are you staying?"

"Of course," he said, and took Alice's hand. "Soon," he said. "You'll spawn, and we can go back to blaming your mood on undergraduates alone."

"Pigs," she said with a smile. "So where's Mary?"

"Visiting her great-aunt," Matthew replied. "I didn't want to pry, but there's something up, I think. With her father."

"She doesn't think he did it." It was not a question.

"I don't know."

Alice shrugged. "I don't think he did it. I don't even know the bastard."

* * *

><p>He was allowed newspapers, and he skipped the front pages for the financial ones, knowing what each headline hid. Rob read with a smile the laudatory stories of Mary's Friday press conference, noted the criticism leveled at Matthew for leaving at such a time, while praising Mary's performance to the sky. <em>The Telegraph <em>remarked on her intellectual strengths, noting it must have skipped a few generations, and reprinted an old editorial about the original Crawley Martin after the economic disasters of the early thirties. "Matthew Crawley," it read, "has the peculiar talent of knowing when to be fearless and when to be cautious in investing." He folded one of the papers, tearing out the photograph with care, and he placed it on the edge of the desk, while wondering if he could ask for Sellotape in jail.

* * *

><p>"Later," Granny Violet said. "Dinner first. Why aren't you out and about tonight like any young woman should be?"<p>

"Nothing to do," Mary said with a shrug.

"Whatever happened to that lovely young man? James? Jack?"

"Jack," Mary said, and remembered an Italian holiday that ended badly. "That was ages ago."

Violet sighed. "I know you're a strong independent woman, but love is a nice thing."

"I didn't love him."

"I'm not saying you did. I'm saying it's a nice thing." Her blue eyes fixed on Mary. "Have you ever been in love?"

"Yes," Mary replied. "Once." She thought of Matthew, felt her cheeks betray her, and tried to hide it with the tea.

"What are you waiting for? Marry that Matthew boy."

"What?"

"Has he asked? He ought to, it's been long enough."

"What makes you think we've..."

Violet waved her hand. "Sybil let it slip. To be fair, I pretended I knew."

Mary dropped her head into her hands. "God, I should have lied to her."

"Nonsense. Sisters always find out what you're up to. My mother was proof of that." She laughed. "I thought there might be something. Even that first night... I'm glad you have someone. It makes everything much easier."

"Not with him."

"No, I suppose not. How did you manage to keep it a secret?"

Mary groaned again. "Apparently we didn't."

* * *

><p>"What am I supposed to do?" Felix flung himself onto the bed and earned a distracted pat on the head from Sybil, who was scrolling through her news feed.<p>

"About Eddie? I should think you'd be unloading the last of the sketches and opening a Swiss account for your child." She snarled at the screen and started typing at an alarming rate.

"What is it?"

"American congressman thinks women's uteruses are like duck uteruses. Do ducks have uteruses? Uteri?" She kept typing.

"I don't know what that means."

"No one knows what any of these people mean. Sorry. Eddie? I think you need to figure out how to turn it in your favor. I mean, what? It's like her _rumspringa._"

"You have lost me. You may have lost me days ago." But he kissed her like he always did, and she relished being breathless for a moment.

"Felix, I'm serious. It's like this was her wild period. Blue period? What do you people call it?"

"Fraud."

"She didn't sell it."

He closed his eyes and curled up next to her. "You're telling me to find a way to make it a positive? I'm going to have to convince everyone who's purchased from me that it wasn't just something E.C dashed off in her spare time. Mrs. Berenson? That Pollock? Yeah, she did that on her Christmas holiday."

"You're a stickler for provenance. I'm quite sure you can keep them happy. For fuck's sake!" She went back to typing. "Last year that arsehole told everyone an aspirin between the knees worked. This time, the American right wing has come down firmly on the side of women's bodies being able to discern between..." She shut the computer and slid down next to Felix. "Too much. Can't... compute.. can't.."

She kissed him and left him breathless for quite some time.

* * *

><p>Ben sat with his back against the wall and watched Eddie go over the freshly sanded canvas with a tack cloth. "I'm surprised a woman could paint a Caravaggio," he began, and earned an awful stare from Eddie. "I only mean.."<p>

"Don't finish that sentence." She brushed away the last of it and peered at the surface before picking up the bowl of gesso.

"How did you do it? Besides paint by candlelight and hope you got the colours right?"

"Of course I got the colours right."

"There's only a black and white photo of it. How do you know?"

"How do you know I didn't?"

"Clever." He watched with admiration as she primed the canvas. "Do you do all your own?"

"Not always," she said. "For the small stuff, for fun, I'll get the primed ones. For the masterpieces, I do it myself." She laughed. "It makes absolutely no difference, but it makes me think of.. well, Caravaggio and Sargent and having to do it in bad lighting. Toulouse-Latrec stitched together canvases. He did pastels on butcher paper when he couldn't afford anything else."

"You've never been a starving artist."

"No," she said. "But I'd say the limp and the scars were hard enough."

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I don't know why we think artists should suffer."

"It's because they're doing something for the love of it," she said. "Not for the money, or to feed the family. They can't do anything else, and those who don't understand think working shouldn't be fun. You should suffer for your fun." She nodded as he held up the bottle and he poured her another. "And honestly, even this isn't really suffering. I've never wanted for shelter or food or love."

"You're a forgiving one."

"Nooo," she said with a smile. "I haven't forgiven or forgotten. I just have better things to think about."

"Like?" He handed her the glass and she let her fingers stroke his.

"This," she said, and leaned down to kiss him.

* * *

><p>The dinner was, as always, a marvel, and Mary sipped at the last of her coffee with a satisfied grin. "He's still got it."<p>

"Bates? Yes, but if you tell him that, he'll complain about the quality of the ingredients for hours. I keep telling him it's only me and nobody's going to retroactively take away his Michelin star, but he's a perfectionist. At least he controls the chicken and vegetables, though God only knows what my mother would have thought about a henhouse at the Dower House."

"When did his mother die?"

"Good lord.. 1992? She was a hundred years old." She got a faraway look. "She did my hair on my wedding day."

Mary smiled. "Am I keeping you up?"

"No. I don't sleep much anyway. Never have." She put down her coffee. "You still want me to answer the question."

"If you can."

"What happened when your mother died? Your father was a functionless wreck who couldn't care for his children."

"I didn't let him."

Violet narrowed her eyes. "You were a child. He was an adult. There's no letting him about it. He shirked his duties as a father and married that jumped-up Thorpe girl."

"Hardly a girl. And I was seventeen. Not a child."

"She is to me. And you were a girl who'd lost her mother and he let you go. He let your sisters go. I'm quite sure Sybil didn't mind, but I think it's partly to blame for what happened to Eddie before the accident. And don't tell me you wanted it that way. You're both as stubborn as..."

"Lady Mary."

Violet sniffed. "No one could be that stubborn. No, it's just that you've both got that funny Crawley streak. You're never wrong."

"We're never wrong," Mary repeated. "I don't mean quite this. I mean with Alastair and my father and the company. And Patrick. He was, what, twenty-five?"

"Yes." Violet paused. "He was always so odd, but clever enough, I suppose. Charlotte got your father to get him in. Alastair pushed back against it, saying he wasn't ready, not even his father or grandfather would have done this, but Charlotte had her claws into your father..." She twirled her necklace through her fingers. "Eton didn't want him. Neither did Cambridge. Oh, I suppose Gordonstoun had its own cachet, and he seemed to do well at the LSE, but he wasn't what you'd think would succeed. And then he did."

"But the company didn't."

"No, it didn't. And Alastair was never wrong about him. I suppose that didn't help matters between your father and Alastair."

"Functionless wreck," Mary said. "Papa loved Maman, didn't he?"

Violet's voice cracked. "We all loved her."

Mary thought of that day, of turning away from her father, of her father turning from her. She thought of all the phone calls she didn't answer, all the times she brushed away his offers of help. She remembered the _Financial Times_ beginning to show up on her doorstep in college, her fight to earn the Tokyo slot. That year of the conference call, that announcement of Patrick's ascension... nothing had seemed quite right. Eddie's accident, that promise to take care of it... _That last summer, Papa came, Papa never came to Lourmarin for more than a few days... Eddie flipping from his shoulders into the pool, early mornings with just the two of them over coffee and baguettes with jam, talking of important things. Maman's laugh that became a cough... Did he know then? Did he come then because he knew it would be the last? _

"I don't think he did it," Mary blurted out.

"Any of it?"

Mary shook her head. "I know he slept with Alix. He told me that. He didn't kill her."

"Did he tell you that, too?"

"Yes," Mary whispered. "And I believe him."

* * *

><p>"I should take a picture," Alice said. "Sell it to the <em>Daily Mail<em>. 'Centerbank Chairman Scrubs Dishes. He's Just Like Us.' You missed a spot."

"Do not judge my washing-up," Matthew said as he flicked a bubble at her. "And you wouldn't get a dime for that. No one cares about me. If you sold one of Mary washing up, however..." He broke off with a grin.

"A rare thing?"

"No," he said. "But she's far prettier doing it." He dried his hands. "I'll be on my way."

"Stay," Alice said. "The cottage is clean. Or you could deign to stay in this house."

He kissed her cheek. "No, I need to drive. I'll see you next weekend?"

"Of course," she replied. "Are you going to see Mary?"

"You think I should?"

"I think you should give her the option."

"She's three hours away."

"Not the way you drive."

* * *

><p>They walked up the stairs slowly, Mary's pace matching Violet's. "I told Bates to make you a tray, so don't worry about getting up for breakfast."<p>

"Unmarried women don't get breakfast trays," Mary said. "At least that's what my grandmother said."

"That one," Violet shook her head. "My father thought all women in this family deserved trays for putting up with the men. He also said it was one of the keys to a happy marriage."

"What were the others?"

"Always loving someone for their faults, not despite them. Never assuming anything. Ever." She smiled. "And it's not words, but deeds that show love." She patted Mary's arm. "That being said, I do love you, darling girl, and I want you to be happy. So do what you need to do to make that happen."

Mary leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Do you mind if I stay up for a bit?"

The library in the Dower House was not extensive, but Mary was deep into a battered copy of _New Grub Street _when Thom Yorke's wail broke the silence.

"Still awake?"

"I answered, didn't I?" She shut the book. "I forgot George Gissing was rather good."

"Where are you?"

"Dower House with Granny Violet. She's gone to bed. I wish you were here."

"Really?"

"No, I'm joking. I wish Patrick were here." she replied. "I do miss you."

"I could be there," he said.

"Tomorrow?"

"Well..."

"Where are you?"

* * *

><p>The house was dark, and he killed the engine as he rolled to a stop next to the kitchen entrance. "There's really no one here?"<p>

"Not a soul," she said. "Bates gave me the keys. And a basket of leftovers, in case you're hungry."

She slipped the keys into the locks and disarmed the security until the door was locked again. "Through here."

"You're not afraid of ghosts?"

Mary smiled. "I don't believe in ghosts. But Downton's never had angry ones." She opened the door at the top of the stairs, and low lights greeted them in the saloon. "Dining room," she said, and they walked through the long room and turned into a pitch black corridor. "Hold on," she muttered, and he could hear her hand feel along the wall for the switch. "There," she said. "Home sweet home."

They ate at the corner of the table, the dust cover folded back. He laughed at the leftovers, which were packed with linens and glassware fit for the table. "I think it's in his blood," she said. "There was a very old butler here when he was little. Carson, I think. Retired, essentially, but he still oversaw the largest weekend parties. David worshipped him, followed him around below stairs. When he opened his restaurant, he used Carson's old ruler to set the tables just so. I think he misses the old days more than Granny Violet."

"Would you have liked the old days?"

"To have my sole purpose in life be to marry well and produce heirs? No," she said. "What about you?"

"Never. I like plumbing and wifi too much." He poured another glass of wine, and they toasted with a smile. "So I have some bad news."

"Is this why you drove up?"

"No, I wanted to see you." He leaned forward and kissed her, and she let her hand drag across his cheek. "But Dany had a peculiar question."

"FT Dany?"

"Yes. She wondered whether I'd left because of you."

Mary shivered. "How did she ask the question?"

"Just like that. I got the feeling she didn't know much, and I had Lani email her an equally bland response."

"Which was?"

"That I'd left because I was seeking a new challenge."

She shook her head. "That won't put her off."

"No, but she'll have to get more specific." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it back.

"Christ," she said. "What are we playing at?"

"Playing at?"

She stood up. "Why do we think it'll be better now that we're not working at the same place?"

"Mary.."

"Think about it. Conspiring to fix rates, or IPOs, or... We can't be seen in public together. _Daily Mail _will go in for financial coverage. God, I'm going to be the first bank WAG."

He burst out laughing.

"It's not funny, Matthew."

"A bank WAG is very funny. Mary, it won't be like that."

"Yes, it will." She began to pace. "Nothing has changed. Nothing. It'll fall on me. It always falls on the woman. Stop laughing!"

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't get past WAG." The clock chimed one, and he reached for her hands. "You're not wrong that it falls on you. But if we're careful like we have been, it won't become something."

"How long? How long do we have to keep doing this?"

Her phone chimed in response to the clock. "Who is that?" Matthew asked. "Wait. Sorry. I have no right to ask."

"Don't start that," she said. "It's Percy. Who shouldn't be calling me this late," she muttered into the phone. "Why the late call?"

"Where are you?"

"Downton," Mary said. "Visiting your grandmother. Why are you calling me?"

"It's about Patrick."

She sighed. "This couldn't have waited until the morning?"

"No. He's been spying on you."

"I know."

His voice cracked. "You do?"

"He's been having someone follow me for months, Percy. Matthew, too. He's.."

Percy cut her off. "Mary, I'm not talking months. I mean years. And I don't know about Matthew."

"Years?"

"Twenty years, Mary." Percy could hear nothing, and as Holly gripped his hand, he kept going. "He has pictures of you going back twenty years."

**TBC**


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Yeah, government shutdowns, debt ceilings… this took a while. Sit back, relax, listen to some Atoms for Peace or Ross Christopher (both on iTunes, both on repeat for writing recently). _

_Thanks as always to Eolivet and ARCurren._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 30<strong>

_Where the fuck is it?_

Patrick's finger scratches across the trackpad, clicking on folders that do not open.

_Where the fuck are they? _

_I should have changed to that biometric external hard drive. _

_Yes, yes, you should have. You shouldn't have assumed anything, Patrick. You shouldn't have assumed a lot of things. You always assume. You get lucky._

_It's not luck. I'm a bloody fucking genius._

He finds the one coded as USURPER and feels his blood pressure go down as the files on Matthew Crawley open on his screen. Inside it, he finds the path to CLAUDIUS and then the paths to HOTSPUR, LAVINIA, TITANIA, HELENA, SHYLOCK, and a dozen others, and still nothing.

_You fucking shit. You fucking idiot shit, you know where it is. You had to have it close, you had to have it where you could see it. _

_You idiot idiot idiot idiot idiot._

He slams the laptop shut, but his father's voice continues.

_You idiot. She's smarter than you'll ever be and she's only a child. She's a little girl and she already understands what you don't. How do you think it makes me feel to know that this will never go to a descendant of mine because you can't do anything right? _

"I can do things right," he says, seeing not the empty room, but a wide, sun-drenched lawn in Yorkshire, the home he desired rising behind his father's red face.

_Bullshit, you little weasel. You couldn't even follow in my footsteps to fucking Eton. Your teachers at prep knew you were a problem. I had to lie to my father. I had to lie to everyone. You're a disgrace, a bloody fucking awful disgrace. You don't deserve my name. You don't deserve anything. _

_Mary is watching._

_She's always watching._

_I hate her._

Patrick opens the laptop and tries again.

_You had every advantage. What else did you need, Patrick? What else would have made you normal? All I wanted was a normal son. I got a son. I would trade you for any of those girls. Any of those girls.. any of those girls._

He looks down at HELENA, at the mass of emails that could threaten the safety of a particular whistleblower. LAVINIA's text message files and photographs confirm the identity of EC. He knows the contents of PORTIA like his own skin, but he no longer has them.

His fingers itch.

He finds HOTSPUR again and laments its thinness. He knows he cannot hold youthful indiscretions over Percy. He thinks of what he could do to his fiancee. It is not enough.

The first time, it was poison.

The second, blunt force.

_This time, __it can only be poison._

* * *

><p>Matthew poured her a Scotch, but Mary walked away from it, along the library shelves, her hands brushing spines as she turned back. "I remember him," she said. "Taking photographs then. He was just.. I don't know, people taking pictures isn't odd, is it?"<p>

"Not necessarily, no."

"Me," she replied. Her fingers drew out a thick book, at least a hundred years old, and she sat down with it, leaning into the high back of the red settee with a sigh. "Just me."

"Percy said he thought there were others."

"Well, we know he's interested in you," she said as she turned to the first page. "But Percy only found me. Eleven hundred and twenty-seven photographs, Matthew."

"They're not... that kind of photograph." He dropped into the chair opposite her.

"Aren't they? Invasive, personal, taken without permission..." Her voice pitched higher. "I suppose he could have found a way to take naked ones, so I should be grateful?"

"God, no. Mary, it's just..."

"Never mind. I don't want to talk about them. Or him." She went silent, her eyes flicking across the pages as she turned them quickly. "I can't sleep, but you should. It's nearly morning. You must be exhausted."

"You think I can sleep?"

She lifted a yellowed piece of paper from the book. "Good God."

"What is it?"

"A London to-do list. 'Asprey's 1o'clock.'" Mary turned it over. "It's his handwriting. My great-grandfather's. 'Drinks/club D. Martin.. business? Mary's packages. Robbie/bookshop.'" She replaced it. "He left things in books. We come across drafts of letters and lists all the time."

"When was that one written?"

"Probably mid-twenties, if the reference to David is any clue." She shut the book and stared at Matthew. "I'm serious. Go to bed."

"Only if you come with me."

"I'm not tired, Matthew."

"Neither am I." He stood, hand extended.

"You think that's going to solve everything?"

"No."

She stood without taking his hand and stalked ahead of him, through a hidden door and into the long saloon. She did not look back at him as she ascended the stairs and turned down a dark hallway.

"There's really no one here?"

"The housekeeper is on holiday. There's a caretaker who lives in one of the old cottages, but he doesn't come into the house. When the house is open, there's a staff, but in general, it's just a cleaning team from outside and the housekeeper." She opened a door and flicked on a light. "I hope this suits you."

"Mary, don't shut me out. Not now."

"Is that an order?" He didn't respond, and she felt her anger wane as he dropped his backpack on the floor. He was exhausted, she saw with a pang, his eyes red and his shoulders curved forward as he slumped onto the bed. "The bath is through that door if you need it."

"When I need it," he replied.

She lowered herself next to him. "I can't... Matthew, this is..."

"I can't possibly understand. I know that." He traced her collarbone with his fingers, letting his thumb rest in the hollow between. "I wish I could kill him for what he's done to you."

"Matthew..."

"I should have fired him months ago. I thought I could do it without blood, but I was wrong and you were right."

"He would have played his cards sooner. It wouldn't have changed a thing."

"Right again." He closed his eyes. "How do I help you? How do I make this better for you? How do I fix what this useless fuck did to you?"

"I love you," she replied. "You can't help. This is my fight. You have your own demons, what with the report I saw last week."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not joking."

"Mary, he's stalked you. Stalked us. The woman I love is being threatened. I need to do something."

"Men," she said. She picked up his arm and put it around her shoulders, curling against him. He sensed the fight was gone for now, and so he kissed her nose, and her lips, and he felt her smile.

_T__here you are, my Mary..._

"And anyway," she continued. "You've got to think of how to wave Dany off the story."

"Without lying."

"Without lying." She dragged her lips across his cheek. "I hate lying."

"So do I."

"Granny Violet knows." Mary sat up and kicked off her shoes. "She played Sybil like a violin."

"So we're at sisters, assistants, lawyers..." He joined her, peeling off his socks and flexing his toes.

"Great-aunts, in-laws..." She pulled the shirt over her head. "Patrick."

"Shhh," he said. "He thinks he knows. He doesn't know."

"He knows." She unbuttoned his shirt and put her cheek on his chest. "But it doesn't matter anymore."

"We don't know what he knows."

"Known unknowns," she whispered against him and got a laugh in return. "Should we get our stories straight?"

"That I fell in love with you at first sight that night in the club?"

"That you made me feel things I'd not felt in years when I first laid eyes on you?" She scratched his skin lightly and felt him shiver. "That I wanted you from day two?"

"Only day two?" He kneaded the knots near her shoulder blades and felt her let go.

"You were insufferable until you promoted me." She yelped as he pressed down. "All right. Halfway through day one. And at dinner."

"That was insane."

"They are insane. All of them." She kissed his skin again, breathing into him, and he tightened his arms around her. "But you understood. No one else has ever understood, or will. Only you." She lifted her head. "I love you. I don't say it enough."

"You don't need to." He dragged his fingers through her hair. "We're all right, aren't we?"

She answered him with her mouth, lips on his, soft and insistent. "Yes," she murmured. "We're all right."

The house was quiet around them, the dawn trapped behind the shutters, and it was only them and the ghosts she didn't believe in. He let her take every lead, pinning him to the bed, her hips against his, her hands twined in his above his head. She took her time kissing him, moving just so, grinning at his smile, but never letting go until he jerked against her, and she laughed as they scrabbled at belts and zippers until they were stripped bare, tucked into the silky cotton sheets, her body once again atop his. He traced patterns through freckles with his tongue, and she found ways to touch him that he did not expect, did not at first believe, and then he lost himself in her _what are you smiling at? Your face..._ and they lost themselves in laughter and skin and sweat.

_Only you._

* * *

><p>His cheek was warm against her, and he tried not to cough, but he could not help himself, and Jemma rubbed Jack's back until he calmed again, and fell back to sleep on her shoulder.<p>

"I'll take him," Nate whispered.

She eased him into Nate's arms with a sigh. "Fever's down, but he's still coughing. You should still be sleeping."

"You need to sleep," he replied.

"Can't. That email," she said.

"You don't have to answer it."

"Dany doesn't give up easily." Jemma stretched her arms above her head.

"How specific is the question?"

"Specific enough. 'Do you know anything about a personal relationship between Matthew Crawley and Mary Crawley?' Yes, I do know something about a personal relationship." She shrugged.

"What do you know?"

"That there is one."

"Anything else?"

"She's in love with him."

"I see." He stood up and swayed with Jack. "I'm surprised Dany asked you."

"We have a longstanding professional relationship," she said. "I provided her with some information before."

Nate looked down at her. "About what?"

Jemma shrugged.

"You gave her the information about the risk management meetings."

"Yes," she said.

"How did you get it?"

"Alastair," she replied. "And no, I'm not telling you any more than that. Dany knows who you are and you need plausible deniability."

He stared down at her for a moment and then laughed, loudly enough that Jack stirred and coughed again. "Shhh," he whispered to his son. "You," he said to Jemma. "I can't believe I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"What you've been. Who you are. Who I fell in love with." He leaned down and kissed her. "I'm putting him down and putting you in bed."

"He's still sick."

"He's fine," Nate said.

"I fine," Jack said. "I fine."

"You fine?" Jemma said and stroked his hair. "You're not a doctor."

"I fine. I go bed. Book?"

He fell asleep with a book in his arms, and Jemma stifled a grin at the sight. "He's like you."

"What do you mean?"

"You fall asleep like that. Reading."

"I do not."

"Do too."

"Do not." He picked her up. "I'm only falling asleep with you tonight."

She frowned. "What did you mean 'who you are?'"

* * *

><p>Sybil rolled as best she could into Felix, who was wide awake and staring at the ceiling. "What is it?"<p>

"Trying to remember if I sold anything off the books."

"You never sell anything off the books."

"That's the official story," he said. "I've brokered a couple of deals, though. Checked provenance, but... I don't want to have to defend that."

"What were they?"

"Valuable," he said. "Pieces that the seller knew someone wanted, and the buyer didn't want to compete on an open market. Seller knows me, buyer knows me..." He sat up. "She didn't think, did she?"

"It was before you sold any of her stuff, Felix. No one's going to blame you for what she did back then."

"How do I know she isn't doing it now?"

"She says she isn't."

"You believe her."

Sybil swung her legs out of bed and shook off the hand that reached for her.

"Sybil."

"Don't go there, Felix. I mean it." She slammed the door and he could hear the water running.

He flung himself back on the bed. "Fuck," he muttered. Sybil's phone rang once, a strange trill he had never heard, and stopped. It rang again, twice this time, and stopped before she could reach it. Her eyes grew wide at the ID and she waited for it to ring again. Minutes passed, and with fingers shaking, she tried to call back. "It's dead," she muttered. "Shit, shit, shit." She tried again, and again, and she started to cry.

"Who is it?"

"I can't tell you." She dialed a different number and waited. "I need Ian. Now. It's Sybil." She shook off Felix's hand and walked into the hall. "Ian. Do we have a fixer anywhere in Tripoli right now?" She paused. "I need someone to check on the mermaid. She called me. Twice, just now, but she hung up before I could answer, and it's gone dead." Her eyes, wide and terrified, rested on Felix for a moment. "Have them call me. I'll tell them where she might be." She hung up and sank to the floor, head in hands. "Fuck. Fucking fuck."

"Mermaid?"

"A source. A very, very endangered source. I told her to call that number if something went wrong."

It rang again, that unfamiliar sound.

"Hello?" A stream of chatter erupted from the phone and Sybil held it away from her ear. "I need you to wait for our fixer." She shook her head at the words, got up from the floor, and walked back into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door in Felix's face.

He raised his fist to knock, but stopped before it struck, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.

* * *

><p>An electric kind of sound awakened Ben, who opened his eyes to see a ceiling he did not know, in which glass and steel shared space with a fair representation of the Sistine Chapel's ceiling, only as he looked closer, he saw the faces of financial executives instead of Michelangelo's God and Adam. "Does Dimon know about this?"<p>

A hand with a mug blocked his view. "I doubt he'd appreciate it." Eddie leaned down and kissed him. "What does this look like in the light of day?"

He looked at her, rumpled in the shirt he'd worn the night before, a smear of oil paint on her collarbone. "Painting already?"

"Light," she said. "Something small."

"I should be offended," he said as he looked at the oil sketch. "Small?"

"Not you. Just the painting." She tilted her head. "I've never painted a patron before."

"Is that what you think I am?"

"I know you are." She flicked at the canvas. "You're also my solicitor. I've never painted one of those either."

He sipped at the tea and watched her work from a pair of Polaroids pinned to the top of the easel. "You took pictures of me while I was asleep?"

"I was afraid you'd move."

Ben glanced at the snapshot, his arms and legs flung in all directions, his chest bare, and warmed at the memory of her skin against his, his mouth against the jagged lines on her hip, her hands twined in his hair as he cried out. "And sedating me isn't exactly legal."

"I think I sedated you rather well." She came back and kissed him again. "Breakfast?"

"Yes, please," he replied, but when she did not move from the canvas, he got up with a laugh. "I see how this works."

"Good man," she said.

She mixed the colours of his hair while he boiled eggs.

"It looks beautiful," he called from the kitchen, and she knew what he meant.

* * *

><p>Sybil wasn't crying when she walked into the kitchen, but the tears were close, and Felix poured her a small cup and topped it with steamed almond milk. "Just this once," he said, and she put her hand to his cheek. "Is it bad?"<p>

"A source calls me in a panic because she believes she's been exposed." She sipped at the coffee and shut her eyes. "It's not bad, it's disastrous."

"You don't know that yet."

"I know it," she whispered. "I'm just waiting for confirmation. A second source, if you will." She put down the cup. "Did the provenance check out for you?"

"The what?"

"Your paintings. The ones you didn't broker privately."

"Oh. Yes, they're all fine. Ironclad. The private ones... they're pretty famous and they checked out before." He dug his fingers into her shoulders and she tipped her head forward to give him access.

"Come back to bed. You need your rest."

"I need to hear first."

"Libya?"

"I can't tell you."

He nodded. "Whatever I can do to help."

She regarded him for a moment, and then shocked him by throwing herself into his arms. "You always help. You are helping."

* * *

><p>Matthew's eyes opened to the sight of Mary, naked, looking out the window. "What time is it?"<p>

"Seven," she said. "Bates telephoned and said he'd keep breakfast for us if we wanted some."

"And show up at Violet Martin's table in the clothes I wore yesterday?" Matthew grinned. "That'll go well."

"She won't mind. He might." She crawled back into bed and kissed him. "When do you leave for New York?"

"Tonight. I'll have to go back straight after breakfast."

"Did Centerbank send the jet?"

"Of course."

"Ours is nicer."

"I know. I approved it." He pulled her close and breathed into her neck. "What will you do about the photos? About him?"

"Percy's trying to determine if any of them were from our surveillance systems. That alone is enough to get police involved. After that, possibly if they were on private property?" She shuddered. "If I confront him, what else does he have? What does he have on my family? On you?"

"He doesn't have what he thinks he has on Eddie. That's a start." He sat up. "Besides this, I don't know what he'd have on me. I can't imagine Sybil ever gave him an opening. And anyway, it's called blackmail. You can get him on that."

"Maybe." She scratched his back.

"You don't sound convinced."

"I don't think he's going to do anything yet. He'll wait. He always waits. Shower's through there."

"Join me?"

"Always," she said with a smile.

They laughed at the size of it, tiny in a vast house, and she reminded him that her father had never let Charlotte touch Downton. "This is probably from the seventies? Lady Mary's last stand was against shower stalls. I'm not sure how they sneaked this in."

"Will you update it?"

"Possibly." She leaned against his shoulder and let the water sluice over her face for a moment. "I try not to think about when it becomes mine."

"You went to see your father, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"If you want to talk about it..."

She stopped his mouth with a kiss.

* * *

><p><em>Car to LCY to New York. <em>

_San Francisco._

_Tokyo._

_Hong Kong._

_Singapore._

_New Delhi._

_Abu Dhabi._

_Berlin._

_You little idiot girl, don't you know how to secure your communication? People shouldn't know what the chairman of Centerbank is doing. People shouldn't be able to find out which hotel he uses, or his preferences. _

_He likes croissants. He likes espresso. He likes a gym open at four-thirty. _

_People should never know these things._

**TBC**


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: The songs are "The Mess We're In" by PJ Harvey and Thom Yorke, and "Bodysnatchers" by Radiohead. _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 31<strong>

Matthew did show up to Violet Martin's table in the clothes he wore yesterday, and she did not bat an eye. Neither did David Bates, who chose to ignore the less-than-crisp collar as he supervised the serving of flawless poached eggs, petite filets, and fruit by a skittish young woman. "She's not sure of her left and right hands," he murmured to Violet. "But by God, she can poach eggs properly."

Mary grinned across the table at Matthew as the girl retreated into the kitchen. "He trains locals for culinary school. She's off to France next year."

"David thinks she'll be the next April Bloomfield, whatever that means," Violet added.

"Good food is what it means." Matthew poured himself coffee. "I thought an Englishman was never served at breakfast?"

David sighed. "She needs practice and I take opportunity when I can get it. This one is disinclined to throw dinner parties."

"This one," Violet muttered. "This one is indulging your hobby."

"You could have things on a tv tray," he said.

"All right, all right." Violet's face broke into a smile. "Go make sure she hasn't broken the Aga."

"It's lovely, David. Thank you for breakfast," Mary said.

"Thank you," David replied, and lifted two trays as if he wasn't eighty years old.

"Now," Violet said. "When will this be public?"

"Possibly sooner than we want," Matthew said. "A rather good journalist is asking very specific questions."

"How specific?"

Mary put down her cup. "Is there a personal relationship between Mary Crawley and Matthew Crawley?"

Matthew's eyes flicked to her. "Did she ask you that?"

Mary shook her head. "Jemma. She's not answering, which is as good as a yes."

Violet raised her eyebrows. "You could lie."

"It's never the crime, it's the cover-up," Mary replied.

Violet sniffed. "Your father always said that, but it's clear he didn't believe it."

They were silent for a moment, ignoring both the soft chimes from the hall telephone and the insistent buzzing in first Matthew's, then Mary's pocket.

"Oh for God's sake, someone pick up something. I don't mind," Violet hissed.

Mary shrugged. "Matthew's the busy one today."

He shot her a look, and glanced down at the screen. "I'm sorry. I do need to take this."

Violet watched him leave. "I don't quite understand what the problem is. You're adults."

"It's the company fraternization policy. Technically I reported to him, so that's a violation. Especially egregious since I came up with the damn thing."

Violet snorted. "If we didn't live in a world with _Daily Mirrors_ and _Mails_, would it matter?"

"It does when the next question is 'if you lied about this, what else did you lie about?'" She sipped at her tea. "I suppose the question, when asked directly of either Matthew or myself, will be answered honestly. Not too honestly," she added. "I'm not going to offer information."

"Good girl," Violet said. "And to hell with those who judge you for it. How was the Abbey?"

"Lovely. Peaceful. I found a note from your father in one of the books. I think it's from before you were born."

"Oh, do show me. We'll go up later today. By the way, Charlotte got a nasty surprise in the _Telegraph_ this morning. She won't be getting her claws into the Abbey or any part of the estate."

"The _Telegraph _is doing divorce coverage?"

Violet laughed. "They do when it's a family like ours. Your father tied everything up quite nicely without telling her."

"How do you know?" Mary put down her cup.

"I'm assuming his solicitor leaked it, but he's put everything into your name and your sisters' names."

"Our names?"

Violet sniffed. "Sybil Maier, whether she likes it or not, owns a great deal of real estate. So do you, and so does Eddie."

"You and Eddie what?" Matthew sat down.

"What was it?" Mary asked.

"Schedule for today," he said. "They're sending a helicopter to the pad outside the village to pick me up. Hour from now."

Mary put down her cup. "So we're not even going to try to hide this?"

"No point," he said. "And you're right. Don't offer information. Let them ask."

"You'll be off gallivanting around the world while I'm stuck with the FT in my face." An edge crept into Mary's voice.

"I wouldn't call trying to unwind a financial disaster in the making gallivanting, but you can go with that if you like." He poured coffee into her cup.

"That was tea."

"I know." He stared at her until she laughed, and both of them could feel Violet relax. "Mary, it's going to come out. Better that it's out of our mouths than Patrick's at this point. I hope to God Dany hasn't gone to him."

Violet shuddered. "Where is Patrick?"

"Home in London, according to Percy," Mary said. "We're keeping an eye on his activities." She flinched, the memory of Percy's discovery striking her again. Matthew reached across and took hold of her hand for a moment before picking up her cup and drinking down the coffee and tea together. It made her laugh again. "You idiot," she murmured.

"Should we tell Mrs. Martin about the photographs?" he asked.

"It's Violet, my boy, and what photographs?"

* * *

><p>Sybil fell asleep in Felix's arms, and she was not awake when the phone rang a solitary tone, and so she did not know for some hours that the source, known as Mermaid, was found dead in a ditch outside Tripoli. She did not know for those hours that the woman, a wife of a high-ranking official, had been chased on foot before death.<p>

Sybil did not know that Felix, a relatively talented hacker in a past life, found things on her computer that explained why and how someone was able to find the woman, as well as the kind of things that told him someone else had been here before.

* * *

><p>"Will you stay?" They were back in the studio, back on the floor, and naked again.<p>

"Don't you need to work?" He sat up and stared at the small painting of himself and was reminded of the early critics _Freud and Sargent and Caravaggio rolled into one. _

"Eh," she said, and reached up to drag her nails across his back. "I've done enough work for one day."

He looked down at her, at the smile that bent around the scar on her cheek and felt his heart swell. "We could get some work done."

She grinned. "That wasn't enough work?"

He shook his head. "I mean on your case."

She stood up abruptly, and he cursed himself for wrecking the mood. "Fine," she said. Her hands reached for a remote control and the lights suddenly dimmed, leaving a single work light. She stepped into the pool of light and glared at him. "Question one."

"Not like that, Eddie," he said.

"What is it like?"

"Walk me through the timeline. Tell me everything you remember."

She pulled on an ancient blue silk kimono, the flowers only thready bits, and curled up on the chaise next to the window. "Once upon a time, there were three little girls who lived in a castle."

It was the first time he'd ever taken notes with a pencil in a sketchbook.

* * *

><p>"That's the last of it." Greg stood up with a groan. "You are officially moved into your new palace, and I am moved into mine."<p>

Aurelie surveyed the smallish room. "It's not quite a palace," she said.

"You get an assistant. You have a palace."

"So do you."

"Not until I hire one, and that's not happening until I'm back from the Tokyo run." He flopped down on the desk chair and put his feet up, ignoring her hiss of disapproval. "How did you find yours so fast?"

"Summer intern from LSE."

"Not the girl from the Maritimes?"

"Oh, yes." Aurelie picked up his feet and dropped them to the ground.

"She failed spectacularly at the trading game."

"Operative word is spectacularly, Greg." Aurelie turned on the kettle. "She was.. how do you say it? Ballsy. She took risks in ways not a single other one of those little brats was willing to try. Whether or not it worked was irrelevant. No money was at stake and they were still all terrified of putting a foot wrong in case they didn't get a job."

"So you're giving her one?"

Aurelie shrugged. "She earned it. Also, her taste in shoes is impeccable. And not that I did it for this reason, but when it went out on the operations read note, I was informed that others had... dibs? Is that the word? There are no dibs. I made the offer first."

Greg laughed. "Good for you." His phone buzzed and he stared down at it for a second before putting it away. "So is it as odd for you as it is for me?"

"Is what odd?"

"Not having to worry about where they are and what they're doing?"

Aurelie selected a tea canister and held it up. He nodded.

"I mean, that's a couple years of our lives basically living for someone else. Doesn't it feel odd?"

"No. Not really." She swirled hot water into the pot. "I will miss working with him. But it was time to work for myself."

"You work for Mary Crawley."

"You know what I mean."

He watched her make the tea. "I'm glad we both moved on," he finally said. "It was time."

She surprised him with a kiss on his cheek. "Yes it was." Her mobile rang.

"Aren't you going to look at that?"

"I know who it is." She pulled a green and gold box from the shelf and offered him a macaron. "And I imagine Dany's been calling you as well."

"I can't answer it."

"It's not our answer to give."

"Exactly."

"Exactly."

* * *

><p><em>No one visits on a Sunday.<em>

_No one comes to call._

Rob didn't know if he made up the lines himself or if they were from a long-forgotten poem or song, but the rain he can hear outside made him morose. He couldn't bear the papers, even though he's all but gone from their headlines. The books did not interest him, but the rain did as it beat against the glass high above him.

"_Il pleut," he muttered to himself, just as a bright red umbrella collided with his black one._

"_Oui," a soft voice responded with a laugh. "And you thought it would never be useful." Dark eyes, a fall of nearly-black hair, a tilt to her lips that promised more laughter, and a hand suddenly in his. "I shall get you out of la pluie." _

_He had a meeting with Monsieur Something-or-Other from __Soci__é__t__é__ G__é__n__é__rale, but he let this tall young woman lead him into a courtyard, where efficient waiters took their coats and parapluies and seated them at a table in front of a fire__. __No one asked before bringing warming drinks, and he did not ever remember ordering, but in the time he memorized the line of her throat, and the way her hands spun up in the air as she spoke in both English and French, plates of poulet roti and haricot verts appeared. _

"_You didn't just find me by accident, did you?" _

_She smiled. "You mentioned a meeting and I took a chance."_

"_On me?"_

_Her eyebrow flicked up. "Why not you?"_

"_I thought you didn't like me."_

"_Whatever gave you that idea?" She smiled up at the sommelier, who poured a second glass of wine for Rob. _

"_You ignored me from the moment we were introduced last night." _

_She waved her hand in dismissal. "I couldn't be bothered to be friendl__y at an event like that. You merely have to survive. Here we can talk and learn about each other."_

"_What should I know about you, C__é__line Desrosiers?"_

_C__é__line leaned forward and put her hand in his. "That I'm worried about our girls. You've lost them, Rob."_

He awoke with a start, his head banging against the wall.

He had not dreamed of her in years, not like that, not that day when he was two hours late to the meeting and no one batted an eye, when he brought her flowers and took her to dinner and realized in all his young years he had never laughed like this.

_No one vists on a Sunday. _

_No one comes to call._

They were her words, spun out of pain and illness.

Rob put his head back on the pillow and cried.

* * *

><p>She followed his car as far as the village, near the long-idle train station, where he stopped and got out. "Someone will come for the car," he said as she approached. "For some reason, they would prefer this mode of transport."<p>

"Should I start following suit? Chasing you on board the company helicopter?"

"We don't have a company helicopter."

"What's this _we?_"

He was silent for a moment. "Crawley Martin Thorpe doesn't have a helicopter. Neither does Centerbank, for that matter. They outsource it."

"They outsource a lot of things, I hear."

He took her hands. "So here's where it starts."

"You can't say anything. I know."

He kissed first her right hand, then her left. "I think this is going to be harder. Much harder. But I think we can get through it."

"Even with Dany on our tail? Even when I'm a bank WAG?"

He did not laugh, but looked around carefully before dropping to one knee.

"No," she breathed.

"Really?" He stood up.

"No, no, no." She looked up at the sky, clear, blue, nothing in sight, no cloud, no warning, and her heart beat faster. "Do it."

* * *

><p>Violet's hand traced the frames. She could hear her father's voice, her mother's, the differences before and after the war. She remembered when they first mentioned William Thorpe, when he was first welcomed to Downton Abbey, when Alastair and her darling Percival took an instant disliking to his son Will. The father was businesslike, the son greedy and distrusting, and now the grandson...<p>

_Appalling mother. _

"What is it they say? Not ready for prime time?"

"I'm sorry?"

Violet laughed. "David, I'm sorry. I'm talking to myself again."

"If you don't mind, I'll join in." He stood next to her, and touched a small photograph of a tiny, white-haired woman. "She should have been born at least fifty years later."

"You wouldn't have been here."

David picked it up. "Your mother, too. If any two people could have proven women can have it all, rule the world and then some, it would have been them." He held it briefly to his heart and then put it back. "Baby Mary's nearly proven it."

"She doesn't have to prove anything," Violet said. "And don't ever let her hear you call her that."

"She's Lady Mary reborn," David said. "What else would I call her?"

Violet pulled out a small album and began flipping through it. "Were you ever here when the girls were little?"

"Barely," he said. "Why?"

Violet stopped on a page of faded colour photos. "She's her mother, too," she murmured, and pointed to the tall woman with a curtain of dark hair, draped across a chaise on the lawn. Her hand rested on her eldest's head, and even with the child's goofy, face-scrunching grin, the resemblance was startling.

"I've never seen these," David said and flipped the page.

"My God," Violet hissed. Her finger landed on a small figure in the back of the photo, a teenaged boy taking a photograph. She turned the page again, and again, each time her breath getting shorter, until she stopped at the last page.

"What a little creep," David said. "Is that Patrick?"

"Yes," she said. "The one who's always staring at Mary."

* * *

><p>Dany had never been one for pubs, but she appreciated <em>Dead Novelists,<em> thanks to its decent cocktails and unpredictable readings. She read the schedule for October for the third time, _Laura Ann Curran: "Sarah Curran and why Ireland dare breathe not her name," Samantha Tarryn and Carmen Cain read from their new erotic poetry collection, "Anger of the Camellias," Julia Maddox: "Financial History for Dummies and Americans: A New Play.."_

"Hello again."

"Been a long time," Dany said. "Are you drinking?"

"I probably should," Jemma said and waved to the bartender.

"You have a usual?"

"I own the place," Jemma replied. "I assume you were charged for the drink?"

"I'm not allowed to take free.."

"Good," Jemma interrupted. "I wasn't going to offer."

"I know," Dany said.

They stared at each other for a few minutes, and Jemma steeled herself for an interrogation _answer only what is asked._ A shimmering coupe glass filled with a cloudy liquid materialized next to Jemma's hand, and she lifted the cocktail stick and took down all three olives.

"What is that?" Dany asked.

"Vodka, extra dirty, blue cheese olives." She took a sip.

"May I try it?"

"Are you going to order one?"

"Not now," Dany said. "So do you have an answer?"

"To your one question?"

"To my one question."

"Which is..." Jemma took another sip.

"Is there a personal relationship between Matthew Crawley and Mary Crawley?"

"Yes," Jemma said, and stood up. "I'd recommend the poetry reading. They're a scream."

"Wait," Dany put down her notebook. "What does that mean?"

"There's a dictionary on the shelf. 'Yes' is under Y." Jemma picked up her glass. "I thought you were better than this."

"I thought they were better than this," Dany muttered.

"Why do you want to know?"

"If they'll lie about this, they'll lie about anything," Dany placed her phone on the bar.

"Turn it off," Jemma said. "I mean it."

There was a long silence, punctuated only by both women drinking, before Dany turned off the iPhone and sat back.

"Why are you asking?" Jemma sat back down.

"I just have a hunch," Dany said. "And hunches are what I do for a living."

"I used to deal in hunches," Jemma said. "Had a hunch that housing wasn't going well. Got out of that kind of early. Thought AIG was a bit shady. Freddie Mac, too. Thing is, I don't deal in hunches any more. And I'm not helping you with yours. You asked your question. I wasn't going to tell you it wasn't specific enough, but you know that now. Remember what happened in that bar in 2005?"

"Married guy?"

"You didn't think he was married. You wanted to ask him 'are you married?' What did I ask him?"

Dany sighed. "You asked him how long he'd been married."

"Exactly. Shocked the cheating pants off him. Little shit." Jemma patted Dany's arm. "Here's what I'll tell you now. You're asking the wrong person." She downed the last of the drink. "Seriously, if you do nothing else, check out the poetry reading."

* * *

><p>"<em>Maman," <em>Mary began. "_Je l'aime." _She touched the letter _C _on the stone. "I wish you could meet him. I wish you could know him. I wish I could tell you all about him." She propped up a fallen white rose. "All the things I miss and it's this that I didn't know I would want. I want to tell you first." It caught the light, traditional and yet not, a hundred years old. "He bought it in New York," she whispered. "After.. oh, I forget you don't know." She stroked the band with her thumb, the unfamiliar becoming familiar. "And I didn't think we would, not for a long while, but..." She looked up at the sky, where only minutes before he had disappeared. "We are. We will. We'll face all of this together. All of it, including Papa." She glanced at the roses. "Papa's roses," she said. "Every four days. Rain, shine, or jail." She pushed the errant one back into place again. "He didn't do it, Maman. He didn't. I'm going to help him. I promise. I'm sorry. I should have helped him before because I think he's been helping me."

Her phone rang, once, the one she only shared with Matthew, and it did not ring again. "I'll call him back," she said to the stone, just as the sound of a helicopter shattered the calm again. She wondered at first why it was back, and then she realized it was not the same helicopter. It was not the same pilot, nor the same pair of men who exited and looked around for a passenger.

Matthew did not answer his phone.

**TBC**


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Thank you all for your votes... and your patience. Music is Darkside "A1." _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 32<strong>

_One hour. _

That was all the time it took for a man to disappear.

A helicopter found abandoned in Scotland, six charter flights now being traced, airspace checked across Europe.

_T__hree__ hours._

Two private jets searched, ports closed within the possible radius, trains scanned by dogs and officers.

_Four hours._

The usual suspects are scrutinized, the websites and preferred methods of communication by various terrorist organizations turn up nothing. Not even the most amateur of wannabes had tried to claim responsibility for kidnapping the chairman of Centerbank.

_Five hours._

The surveillance at the pad has made it clear that he left on his own, but there is no lying to police who ask why he was in the north in the first place.

* * *

><p><em>Six hours.<em>

She wore it on her right hand and almost no one noticed during the London press conference that Mary Crawley kept spinning a ring around her finger, pressing the dark blue stones into her palm again and again. They were too busy asking if she had seen anything and who she thought was responsible.

Dany did not ask a question.

She watched Mary, but did not raise her hand during the fifteen minutes in which Ben and the Crawley Martin Thorpe PR team fielded questions from more than eighty reporters, including, inexplicably, a writer from _Vanity Fair_ who had never covered finance in his life. Dany took notes in her own shorthand, deliberately incomprehensible to anyone who tried to look over her shoulder, and waved off the press rep who looked to her multiple times.

No one asked _the_ question.

Mary's chest ached and her stomach roiled as she answered questions in four languages, waiting all the while for it to happen. But no one asked, and Dany only sat there, writing down a few words, and did not stand up when Ben called a wrap to the conference and escorted Mary out.

The rest of the journalists streamed out, leaving Dany sketching in the margins of her notes. She ignored the entreaties of the PR team as she wrote down a single sentence on a shred of paper, placed it in an envelope which she took her time to seal, and then handed it to the tallest of the reps.

* * *

><p>"Are you fucking joking?" Sybil threw the iPad toward the footboard, where it skidded to a stop against a pile of newspapers. "I own it?"<p>

"The station and the helicopter pad? Apparently. It's in your name, as are a pair of complexes in Canary Wharf, an obscene amount of Australian ranchland, and a house in the People's Republic of Cambridge, Massachusetts, not to mention a chunk of Courchevel. Why on earth does your father own a house near Harvard?"

"He did graduate economics work there. Back when he had a soul." Sybil slid down in the bed. "Why hasn't Mary called back?"

"She's a bit busy," Felix muttered. "It's not about you right now."

"Well, Rob's tied me up in it if I'm the owner in name only of the last place a missing man was seen alive." Her voice caught. "Oh, God. Mary. She can't.. Felix.."

He held her, as he had done over and over the past twenty-four hours, only this time Sybil's tears were not for herself.

* * *

><p>"Dany Park gave you this?"<p>

The young woman, an intern from the LSE who was turning pink from terror, nodded. "For you only," she said.

Mary turned the envelope over in her hand and ripped it.

It was not the question she had expected, but it required the same kind of answer.

_Did Matthew Crawley give you that engagement ring today or at an earlier date?_

Eddie twisted her hair on top of her head and flicked off the television. She felt sick for Mary, for that look on her sister's face, that fear she remembered from her own dark nights in hospital, from long days outside Maman's room.

Ben knew, now that she had lain in his arms and told him the stories, knew what it was to be a Crawley sister, knew what their father had put them through.

_You told him everything._

Mary's words, cold even three years later, darted into her head. "He's not Mark," she said aloud, but the words repeated themselves. _You told him everything. You trust him? _

That old feeling came back. She could not sketch, could not write, and so she paced the terrace with her camera, shooting the sky as it changed colors, until a telephone rang and she wondered who had the flat's number.

* * *

><p>"<em>C'est moi."<em>

"Aurelie?" The connection was dicey and he repeated her name.

"Have you heard?"

"Yes." He rolled out of bed and stood up. "Any news?"

"No," she said. "What time is your flight?"

"Not until tomorrow." He kicked at his suitcase. "I'm starting to think I shouldn't go."

"Were you asleep?"

"Trying to shift the sleep pattern. Probably won't work. Is she all right?"

"No," Aurelie said. "But you know her. She won't show it."

"How much did she say?"

"To the investigators? That he was there to see her. I don't know if she got into more detail than that, but yes, it's known by them. No one asked at the press conference."

"Not even Dany?"

"She passed up a note. I'm not in the inner sanctum."

Greg detected the edge. "It's not your job. Or mine. Not anymore."

"I know. Odd. I feel less powerful."

"But with significantly more money at the end of the week and.. wait for it... your own life instead of being at the beck and call of a man to whom you have no emotional attachment?"

She laughed. "True. But what do I do with my spare time?"

"A dog and Netflix."

"Not a boyfriend? Or girlfriend?"

"Noooo. You don't think you'll be at the beck and call of she or he?"

"More truth. I love you for never actually asking." She grinned. "And that you think either is a possibility."

"It's called respect. Do you think I should come in? Try to help out?"

"I'd check in with her if you haven't already." She flicked on the television. "Someone tell me why they've kept this rotten excuse for a human on Sky?"

"I did check in. Who's with her?"

"Ben. What did she tell you?"

"Just a text back to pray or wish or think or whatever I do."

* * *

><p>Violet did not pray anymore, not after years of remembering a fight between her parents on that black day in 1945, and not after those worse days that followed. Things bloomed, pushed through cold ground as they shot green into the grey and brown landscape surrounding Downton, and yet who they wanted most would never come back, would never rise with the sun again. She could think only of her father's pain, her mother's fury, and Sunday after Sunday when Lady Mary would not darken the door of the church. To pray now felt weak, and yet as she watched the reporter drone on and on about the apparent kidnapping of Matthew Crawley, she caught herself thinking over and over again <em>please, please, please no. Not again, not a loss, not for her, not for us. Not again.<em>

_Not again._

David brought tea and toast and sat with her during the third replay of the press conference, not the Crawley Martin Thorpe one, but the Centerbank one, the one in which people who did not know Matthew talked about the money being expended on the search.

"That'll make everyone feel better," David said. "Especially all the people with missing loved ones out there."

Violet shot him a look.

"I mean, think about it. No one spends this kind of money on a missing teenager from Manchester."

* * *

><p>Mary put her phone down. "Ben?"<p>

"Yes?"

"Is there something we can do about other missing people?"

"About what?"

"A signal boost through social media or something? All this energy focused on Matthew..." Her voice faltered and she took a breath. "Couldn't we do something? Remind everyone that there are so many missing? Grace?"

"Yes. On it. Give me twenty minutes?"

Mary nodded. "Is Dany still waiting?"

"Still waiting." Grace raised an eyebrow. "How long are you going to make her wait?"

"Until I have something to say."

* * *

><p>"How did you get this number?"<p>

"I've always had it. Eddie, don't hang up. They won't let me call a second time." Robert's voice was soft. "Eddie, can I help? Is there something I can do?"

"About this? About Mary?"

"And you. I know what Patrick knows, and I know it doesn't mean what we always thought it meant."

"I'll still have to testify. You want that kind of publicity?" She heard him sigh and the absurdity of her question struck her. "Sorry. That was idiotic of me."

"Not as idiotic as I was. I should have asked a solicitor straight away. We were had, my girl, in more ways than one."

"Had," Eddie repeated. "Do you think he did this?"

"Patrick?"

"Yes."

He was silent, so long Eddie thought the connection had broken. "I would have said yes, considering what he got away with before, but this... This is different."

* * *

><p>"Alice?"<p>

"Mary? Do you know anything?" Alice's voice was thick. "They won't tell me anything at Centerbank. I don't know his assistant. I don't know anything."

"Are you all right?"

Alice sniffed. "I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. People know where I am. I can't..." There was a pause and a deeper voice came on. "Mary."

"You must be Daniel."

"I am. Is there anything you can tell us?"

"No. He was at Downton with me and expecting a helicopter. Nothing seemed amiss."

"I suppose it will be public now."

"Yes." Mary spun her ring again. "We had private phones. He called me from it one last time right after takeoff, but he hung up. I assume someone took it or destroyed it. The police tried to trace it, and his Centerbank one, but they've got nothing."

"You'll let us know right away?" It was Alice again. "Anything. I can't stand this... waiting."

_Neither can I._

* * *

><p>"Percy?"<p>

"Yes."

Sybil opened the door and flung herself into his arms. "It's awful. Hello, Holly. Anything?"

"No," he said. "But my counterpart at Centerbank asked me for some curious information."

"What was it?"

"If we'd had any trouble with unauthorized access."

"Which you have."

"Quite a lot, actually. I told him what we'd seen so far, and because I told him that and because I spoke to the police, I wanted to show you something I found." He put down his briefcase and yanked out a laptop.

"I know about it." Felix emerged from the kitchen and handed Sybil a mug of tea. "He accessed ours as well. Got into Sybil's files."

Holly shook her head at the offer of tea. "All your files, Sybil?"

"All of my contact files." Sybil's hands shook as they wrapped around the steaming mug. "Including a source who died tonight."

"You're sure it was Patrick?" Percy's hands stilled over the keyboard.

"I know what I'm doing." Felix's voice was flat. "Sybil's information was accessible through the newspaper's servers, which is how he took it. He couldn't get into mine."

"Did he try?"

"Yes," Sybil replied. "Needless to say, I've just changed how I save and access everything."

"And I filed a report." Felix sat next to Percy. "What did you find?"

Percy sighed. "This."

* * *

><p>"Miss Park? This way, please."<p>

Dany bit back her initial reaction. _Intern,_ she thought. "Wait, isn't Mary Crawley in there?"

"No," the young woman said. "We're going upstairs."

There weren't stairs involved, only a glass lift in the center of the building that rose and rose and Dany found herself waxing poetic about it lending a kind of panopticon nature to the Crawley Martin Thorpe headquarters, which neither the intern nor the large, silent security detail seemed to hear.

The floor was not glass when they reached it, but wood and gunmetal steel and the men scattered along the hall as Dany walked toward a vast pair of doors. "I've never been up here," she said.

"Of course you haven't," the woman said. She knocked, once, and listened. "Go in."

It was dark in the room, the sky black through the wide windows. Dany glanced at the walls, the photographs and paintings like markers in her knowledge of Crawley Martin Thorpe history _the first Matthew Crawley and Lady Mary with their children, Lady Edith at a car race, Lady Sybil alongside Countess Markievicz, Robert with __a young __Rob, Celine Crawley, Alastair Martin..._

"This morning," Mary said. She did not turn around, her hand on the glass, staring at the city below.

"It was this morning."

Dany nodded. "How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long have you been together?"

"Long enough to know," Mary replied.

"Is that why he left?"

"Partly."

"Why else?"

"You'll have to ask him." Her voice caught for a moment. "I can't answer for him."

"What would he say?"

Mary flinched, but did not speak. Her fingers shook as she put the ring back on her left hand.

"I'm sorry," Dany said. "I know this must be hard."

"That's kind of you to say."

"I mean it."

Mary turned around. "I'm sure you do. Is that all?"

"I'm curious about the 'find the missing' hashtag on Twitter right now. Was that your idea?"

"No. My great-aunt and an old friend of the family thought of it." She frowned. "But they're right. Millions will be spent to find Matthew Crawley and every day people disappear and no one knows. If we can help at least one family? That's something."

"Would you pay a ransom for Matthew Crawley?"

"I think it's time you left." Ben emerged from the anteroom. "She's answered your question and more."

"All right," Dany said. "Thank you for your time."

They waited for the door to shut and for the signal from security that Daniela Park had left the building before either took a breath.

* * *

><p>Eddie stared at the phone for a long time before wandering back into her studio, her mind full of unfamiliar things. Her fingers itched with memory and she picked up charcoal sticks and thick paper before settling at her drafting board. The light was wrong and she fiddled for ten minutes with work lights until the old sunlamp's hues pleased her. Champagne was wrong, and so was vodka, and she found a hidden bottle of rose that smelled of Lourmarin and she mixed it with sparkling water until it tasted of <em>that summer<em> and it was really only moments before the large hand on the page, a long-unseen wedding band on the third finger, looked right, and the small hand it held matched her memory.

* * *

><p>"Does Mary know?" Felix scrolled through the collection again.<p>

"Yes," Percy said. "She was far more stoic about it than I was."

"You were sick," Holly said.

"Thank you for that," Percy muttered. "Yes, I was. Mostly because there have been a dozen times we could have shut him down and didn't."

"We could shut him down now," Sybil said. "He's the one who got my source killed."

"Can you prove it?" Percy replied.

"Maybe," Felix said. "Depends on how he's communicating these days."

"Think he's got anything to do with Matthew's disappearance?" Holly asked?

"Christ," Sybil said. "I hadn't even thought of that."

Holly shrugged. "I watch too much television. I think of nothing but conspiracies and crimes."

Percy shut the laptop. "What do we say? Where do we start with him?"

"And how do you tell police 'Listen, this guy basically destroyed one sister, gained access to the building pretending to be my other sister, and we just haven't gotten around to turning him in for being a complete fucking criminal?" Sybil hid her face in her hands.

"Did Centerbank ask about the access because someone accessed them?" Felix picked up a bottle of Scotch.

"They were deliberately vague about it. Hold on." He disappeared into the other room, and Holly accepted the Scotch in his absence.

"Any good shows?" Felix asked.

"Nothing I'd watch, but advertisers will love them." She sipped at the Scotch.

"Yes," Percy said as he put his phone back in his pocket. "Wouldn't say how, but they said only hours before the disappearance the system was accessed twice."

"But?" Holly handed Percy the glass.

"There's a but?" Felix poured another.

"She knows me. The 'but' is the fact that unlike Patrick, this was untraceable."

"Still," Sybil said after a long silence. "Let's let the police decide if this is unlike Patrick."

* * *

><p>"You should go home," Ben said. "There's a driver waiting for you."<p>

"I don't want a driver." _I want Matthew to drive me. _She brushed at her face.

"You don't have a choice. You have a double detail until further notice. They're on their way to your flat."

"Eddie," she started.

"Call Eddie and tell her that the code..." His voice dropped and he scrawled something on a sheet of paper and passed it to her. _New principalities with the help of fortune and foreign arms, _she read. "Just tell her that's what they'll say to her and she'll know to let them in. They'll check the place for electronic and other kinds of surveillance. Another team is working the area around your flat. They have the cooperation of Scotland Yard. We'll find him, Mary. I promise." His jaw tightened. "We'll find him."

* * *

><p>Eddie found the Machiavelli reference amusing, but she was not amused by this round of security sweeping, which was far more invasive than the last. These were serious and angry men, short with sentences and long on glares, but they were careful with the canvases in her drying area as they looked for electronic signals. "Nice," one said of a still-drying oil, and she didn't thank him for it. She wanted Mary to come home. She wanted to talk about Ben, wanted to talk about Matthew, but most of all she wanted to talk about Papa.<p>

But Mary was vague about returning home in her texts. _I have work to do,_ she wrote, and Eddie remembered the careful distance of Papa after Maman's death.

The phone rang, her own, and the jangle made her stumble and catch the wall. "Hello?"

"Eddie?"

"Ben?"

"Are you all right? Are they still there?"

"Yes," she said, and sank down in the door of the terrace. "How is she?"

"Not good," he said. "But I can't make her leave and I can't make her do anything. She's in her office watching the Asian numbers."

"Has she eaten?"

"Not that I've seen."

"Damn it. Put her on."

"I'm down the hall."

"You have legs, don't you?"

* * *

><p><em>Nikkei down at... Hang Seng mixed... Sensex reacting..<em>

_Sensex made him laugh every time. Eyes meeting over the drone of the announcement "and Sensex spikes on.." "What will Sensex do?"_

_Where are you? _

The photograph of her great-grandfather shows the scars from the car accident that nearly took his life, and she stared at it for what felt like hours, the line along his forehead where he had nearly bled to death when his AC flipped on the road to Downton just hours after the birth of his first son. Mary thought of her own great-grandmother, of that panic, of the hours hovering between life and death, of not knowing.

Her chest heaved and she sobbed, the pain worse than she remembered before, worse than loss of her mother, worse than Alastair. This was abandonment, loneliness she had never known before _no one will know what I mean. No one will ever again know what I mean._

The television buzzed, an irritating sound, and she raised her face to see the red lines rush across the scene _breaking news _and a photograph of Matthew flashed across the screen.

_Not my Matthew._

This Matthew looked lost, shocked, uncertain. This was a photograph, a man holding up a newspaper with a date on it. Through the blood pounding in her ears, through the murmur she knew to be Ben's voice, through the pleas on the phone she knew to be Eddie's, she could hear only the television, only the electronically modified voice, see only the subtitles below Matthew's face.

**"We are not Occupy. We are not Anonymous. We are nothing you've ever known before. And we are prepared to kill to make our point."**

**TBC**


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: Thanks to Eolivet and ARCurren. FF doesn't allow the "at" symbol. Uncool. Listen to the Radiohead of your choice. _

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 33<strong>

**_BLOG UPDATE ALERT_**

**_PARK HOURS _**

_by Daniela Park_

_Matthew Crawley went missing three weeks ago today, which was apparently enough time for Centerbank to decide that they should start referring to their interim chairman simply "the chairman." When asked about the shift, I was referred to police, who have nothing new to report on the disappearance. _

_We have seen nothing of Matthew Crawley since that first recording. Questions about kidnap and ransom insurance, about threats made to other CEOs and chairmen since the abduction have also gone unanswered. We only know that a group calling itself Lex Talionis claims it took Crawley for the purpose of drawing attention to the collapse of economies around the world at the hands of financiers. That name, coupled with the fact Crawley had nothing to do with Centerbank's involvement in the worldwide disaster has become something of a grim joke in all of this._

_As for his former employers at Crawley Martin Thorpe, they have gone silent as well. Only the hallmarks of high security mark the shift in tone. Gone are the days of executives at clubs and restaurants, of Instagrams from charitable events. There is a distinct jitteriness to the social circles of these men and women and no one is talking, least of all Mary Crawley of CMT, who is a veritable ghost these days, seen only in the office and even then those inside the building say she is rarely spotted off the executive floor. Yet she has not let up on CMT's mission, and even as the uncertainty rocks the offices, it has not translated into worries for the investors on any continent. _

The clock struck 10 just as the door opened. "Sorry," Jemma said. "Harper woke up just as I left."

Eddie took the small girl's hand in hers. "You can paint with me if you like" She looked back at Mary, who did little more than pat Harper's head distractedly as she walked by.

"I do like," Harper answered. "Is Aunt Mary still sad? Can I paint her something?"

"Of course you can," Eddie whispered as the door closed.

"Ready?" Jemma asked.

Mary nodded. "I'll meet you in there."

It was the only thing that brought sleep these days, ninety minutes in the hot room, silence and sweat followed by a long shower and hot tea that burned the last energies out of her so she could do nothing but fall asleep and dream of that last moment, that last kiss.

"Three weeks," she said to Jemma as she stepped inside and put the ring down on the shelf by the door.

"Don't give up," Jemma replied.

"I haven't." She stood in the center of the mat, feet together, and folded her hands under her chin.

"We're not starting yet." Jemma sat up. "Any news? Anything at all?"

Mary shook her head. "Nothing. Not another call, no success on the trace. They have no ideas and apparently this group isn't interested in communicating anymore."

Jemma nodded. "So the police just give up?"

"No," Mary let her hands fall. "They just wait, I suppose."

"I like your hair," Jemma said.

Mary ran her hands through the cropped strands, still unfamiliar. "I read somewhere women in mourning have a need to mutilate themselves."

"Did you want to mutilate yourself?"

"I wanted a change. Anyway, it's faster."

Jemma stood up. "It's not mutilated."

"No, it's not." She pushed the sweatband back into place. "But I'd hear about it from Matthew.."

_If he were here_.

"They'll find him."

"They'll find something," she said, and the heat of the room could not contain the chill. "The good news is it's finally put Patrick where he belongs."

**_THE DAILY MAIL_**

**_MURDER, INC., UK-STYLE? _**

_Patrick Thorpe, the onetime CEO of Crawley Martin Thorpe, is now facing charges that he killed Alix Westfield, a trader who was the mistress of the former CMT chairman. It also seems that Westfield, 34, was carrying on affairs with both men before she died. There was much speculation about the Crawley connection when her body was uncovered on the family estate in Yorkshire, but when phone and computer records eliminated the possibility of Rob Crawley's involvement, investigators turned their attention to Thorpe, who, as it turned out, was rapidly becoming a suspect in the unsolved disappearance of Matthew Crawley. He has since been cleared of all connection to the group Lex Talionis, but he is now in custody on charges of murder for the Westfield case and it is believed to be only a matter of time before Rob Crawley is cleared and released._

"Allo?"

"Moshi moshi."

"Greg, we miss you. Come back and give us a cheerlead."

"It's called a pep talk, not a cheerlead. Are they really going to release Rob?"

Aurelie waved off her assistant and picked up the espresso cup. "That's what the Daily Mail says. Fortunately, so do the Guardian and the Telegraph, so it must be at least a little true."

"Must be. Hold on." He dropped into the cold pool, emerged with a gasp, and swung out again.

"Are you in the middle of a bath?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Couldn't sleep. No one's around to tell me not to talk." He made a face of apology to the attendant, who still did not smile. "How is she?"

"I don't know. You trained her new assistant well. I can't get a thing out of her."

"I spoke to her last week. Distant. If you can, put eyes on her for me."

"She cut her hair."

"She did not." He sat down hard on the lounge chair and pulled the hotel robe around himself.

"You haven't seen the photographs? Six inches gone. It suits her, but it makes me think she'd throw herself on a funeral pyre if it was available."

"She wouldn't. You know what she's been through."

Aurelie scanned the FT site again, pausing at Dany's blog. "This is different."

**_Tatler_**

**_SPOTTED... _**

_No word yet on what's next in the Crawley divorce. The shocking announcement that Rob Crawley would be freed and not charged in the murder of Alix Westfield was followed by an even more shocking response from Charlotte Thorpe Crawley, who said they were now "working things out." That was news to the Rob Crawley attorney, who pointed out that if "working things out" meant divorce, then, yes, it was true. _

_We are most curious to hear where he will go after the detention doors swing open. Charlotte has laid claim to the London house, and now that his ancestral home and the surrounding areas are crime scenes, one can only assume he won't go there. Perhaps an overseas trip to one of his many properties around the world? We can be sure of one thing. He won't be staying with his daughters._

Eddie slid out of the driver's seat and stood, testing her weight on both legs. The shattered one was responsive, strong again, and while her therapists did not encourage the driving, she knew they were pleased with it. It pleased her to drive, to go to Ben's office, to Mary's, to galleries and museums, to restaurants with Holly.

It pleased her to be able to do this on this wet, dark morning.

The door opened and her father stepped into the prison garage. He was alone, a paper bag in his hand, and at first he did not look Eddie's way.

"He looks so small."

The voice came from the back seat, and Eddie did not turn to look. "Well, since you're practically a whale now, everything looks small." She stepped forward. "Papa."

At first he froze, as if expecting a blow. "Eddie," he replied softly.

"Come on," she said, opening the front passenger door. "You didn't have another ride arranged, did you?"

"No." He tried to laugh and gave up. "I just didn't expect this one."

"There's breakfast at home," Sybil said as he climbed in. "And I'm starving. They said you'd be released half an hour ago."

"You're milking this eating for two thing," Eddie said.

He turned in the seat and stared at her. "When...?" He trailed off.

"You didn't know?"

"You didn't say."

"Nobody told you?" She glared at Eddie.

"Not my pig, not my field." Eddie turned on the engine and revved it with glee.

"A baby," Rob said.

"Someone should have told you," Sybil said.

"You should have told him," Eddie sped out onto the empty road.

"Do I have to do everything around here?" Sybil threw her hands up.

Rob burst into tears.

"Oh, God. Rob.. Papa." Sybil stretched her hand forward and let it rest on his shoulder. "I'm only joking. I don't do everything around here."

"Sybil, you're the worst. I can't believe you didn't tell him."

"I thought he knew."

"How?"

"Mary? Someone. And I'm not a whale. Not yet." She patted his shoulder. "Papa, stop. It's all right. You're out and you're safe and you're getting a grandchild. And for the record, I'm not naming it for a dead relative. That has to stop."

It made him laugh, but the tears did not stop, and it was not until they pulled into the freight dock still under cover of rain and dark skies did he look up. "Sybil's not the worst," he said. "I am."

They did not answer him as they stepped out of the Range Rover, but Eddie took his hand and Sybil accepted the arm he offered with an eyeroll that made him think of his grandmother, and strangely it was a good memory.

**_LIST arttweets _**

**_artoutzmart: the Caravaggio's a fake._**

**_ caracaravaggvagg: but they've got the artist under wraps. _**

**_ artoutzmart: and he's already spotted two fakes at auction._**

**_ caracaravaggvagg: what makes you so sure it's a he?_**

**_ artoutzmart: LMAO_**

"Time frame?"

"They have to lock down the proof." Ben leaned over and picked up the carafe from the floor. "There are a lot of threads and rabbit holes. It's not just Mark. It's all the people he worked with. Could take a year or more."

Percy accepted a cup of coffee. "So she's off the hook until then?"

"Depends on your definition of hook. The FBI is thrilled to have found someone who can spot aging techniques, and she disregarded my advice about sharing information."

"What's wrong with sharing information?"

"You never share information. You just don't." Ben took a sip. "Anyway, she's been recruited to help them on a forgery case. The Getty wants her help as well."

"Do they know?"

"No, and she says she wants to keep it that way. For now, at least. She's just an expert, not an artist. Speaking of experts, what have you been able to hand over regarding Patrick?"

"Off record?"

"Who do you think you're talking to?"

"Fine. Digital forensics did what I couldn't and managed to prove he was on the conference call, that he was the one breaking into Mary's files, that he was the one who staged it to look like Rob was the last to call Alix, and they found not only eleven hundred pictures of Mary, but proof of Eddie's forgery habit, ways into Sybil's computer files, a great deal on Robert's dalliances after marrying Charlotte, and, rather creepily enough, information about me and about Holly. Nothing incriminating, and his rudimentary system of filing us under Shakespearean names was hilarious, but still..." Percy shuddered. "At least it's more or less guaranteed that he'll be convicted of Alix's murder. That's something."

Ben shrugged. "You've got more faith in the system than I do."

"You're not serious."

"Very. Oh, he'll be convicted of the cyber stuff, I'm sure of that. But a cold case of murder?"

**_MORNING BUDGET _**

**_PATEL: Westfield Homicide_**

**_OKONKWO: LIBOR latest_**

**_PARK: Security folo_**

_There's only so much I can say, _Dany thought as she looked over the story list. She glanced up at the monitors. "Five times with that same footage?"

"American cable news," Chirag said with a grin. "Mary Crawley is pretty. And they love a good mystery or kidnapping or child murder. Much easier to report on than actual policy." He passed her his notebook and tapped on the top. "They've more or less got him. Cold case notwithstanding, he failed at destroying everything, and the work that Percy Martin did trying to track him internally gave Scotland Yard a lot to work with."

"Is it true about the photographs?"

"Of Mary Crawley? Yes."

Dany made a face. "It's bad enough he manipulated everyone and made that big a financial mess of CMT. Cherry on the cake - he's a stalker."

Chirag took the notebook back. "Security folo? What else is there to say?"

"Thank you," she said. "I don't know. Centerbank, CMT, Bosworth Standish... execs are basically in lockdown. Nobody's talking about K&R."

"Did Centerbank have the insurance on him?"

"Yes. So did CMT. I don't think they've ever had a kidnap and ransom case that happened on British soil. And they haven't even asked for ransom."

Chirag spun his pen around his thumb. "Maybe they don't have him anymore."

**_THE DAILY MIRROR_**

**_Exclusive: I Didn't Know Anything_**

_The wife of Patrick Thorpe is in hiding, but a close friend tells us Nicola Thorpe is stunned by her husband's arrest and apparent obsession with Mary Crawley._

"Not apparent," Mary whispered just as the door slammed. She dropped the paper into the bin and stood up as Eddie strolled in, followed by the unexpected sight of Sybil with her arm in Rob's. "Coffee or tea?" Mary said.

Sybil pushed Rob forward. "I want tea. I'm allowed. Milk, please."

Eddie took hold of Sybil's hand. "Come on. I want you to see something."

"Subtle," Mary said.

Rob's eyes followed Sybil and Eddie as they disappeared into the studio. "A baby," he said.

"Did she tell you what she wants to name it if it's a girl?"

"No."

"Probably for the best." She picked up a steaming mug and handed it to him.

"I've never been here." His eyes roved across the room and came to rest on the painting of Céline.

"I'll give you the tour."

"Who did that?"

"Eddie." Mary tilted her head to stare at it. "After the accident."

"She's E.C., isn't she?"

"You didn't know that before you blew my inheritance on one of her paintings?" She smiled, but Rob did not. "Yes. She's E.C. You're part of a very select group in knowing. I'm not sure it will stay a secret much longer."

"I knew when I saw it." He trembled and put down the mug. "I knew she painted you."

"Come on. I'll show you around. And where you can sleep, if you'd like to."

He nodded.

**_THE GUARDIAN_**

**_FAMILY MATTERS_**

_by Sybil Maier_

_I'm not allowed to write the headline for this column, and I can only guess at just how far into saccharine the copy editors have taken it. If it's "family matters," I personally apologize for this crime against language and will light candles at the graves of Sartre and Woolf to atone for such a sin._

_I cannot, however, say that this is not about family matters. I have been on leave for a time because of my family, and I should like to share why._

"It's sweet."

"Do not ever call anything I write... sweet." Sybil propped her feet on the drafting table.

"But it is." Eddie took out a set of oil pastels and began sketching on a piece of butcher paper. "It's lovely and warm and entirely unlike you. Is that baby feeding on your cynicism?"

"I'd be the size of that wall if she was. What are you doing?"

"Some tests for a curator."

"Tests?"

Eddie stepped back and tilted her head. "The Getty is a little uncertain about one of its assets."

"I can't believe you're helping them." Sybil cracked her ankle.

"I'm not in a position to say no." Eddie held the paper up to the light. "I'm not entirely innocent, as you well know. And it's fun. Learning all sorts of new techniques."

"Shouldn't we be making breakfast?"

"Mary did it. Well, most of it. Can't you smell it?"

Sybil sniffed. "Pain perdu?"

Eddie nodded and went back to sketching on a different piece of paper.

"Maman made pain perdu."

Eddie nodded again.

"It can't ever be the same."

"Of course not."

"He has to know that."

"He does." Eddie taped the first piece of paper to the wall and stood back to look at it. "He doesn't want it to be the same."

"How do you know?"

"We've been talking about it. Come here."

"Please?"

Eddie didn't answer, and so Sybil stood up with a groan and stood next to her. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"The piece of paper."

"Are those vultures?"

"They're ducks. You like ducks. Do you want ducks in the nursery?"

**_starchored: ¿cómo se enteró de la explosión?_**

He stayed at the edge of the terrace, ignoring the soft rain as he drank his tea_. _Mary drank her own sheltered inside the doors. He had remarked upon the art, upon the architect's decisions about skylights _are you sure they're secure,_ and had merely sighed when seeing the terrace. "It's all right, Papa," she told him. "There's security. You just can't see it."

So he stood outside and Mary did not point out the guards on the neighboring rooftops, did not tell him that private security swept the buildings every twelve hours. "We'll have to eat soon, or Sybil will gnaw off her own arm."

"Would any of you ever have told me?"

"I hope so." Mary took his empty mug. "But it was really Sybil's story to tell."

"A baby," he said. "Boy or girl?"

"She changes the pronoun daily, uses the occasional _it_ and embraces gender fluidity when possible. Felix is just hoping that it's not more than one baby."

He laughed, and so did she. "I would like to stay here, if that's all right. A few days."

"As long as you like. We can talk."

"About Matthew?"

She blanched. "What about Matthew?"

"Mary, I know. My darling girl, I'm so sorry."

Mary nodded, her throat thick. "They're still looking," she said. "I'm not supposed to know about the K&R, but they're close to finding him." She gripped both mugs. "And before we talk about him, Papa, we need to talk about this family."

He laughed again, this time through tears. "That's twice now."

"Twice?" _Papa._ "Well, it's a start, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry. It's not enough, and it won't ever be enough. But I am."

"It's not just me who needs to hear that."

Rob shook his head. "We have our own hatchets to bury." He flinched. "Terrible choice there. You know what I mean."

"I do." She sniffed the air. "Damn. Pain perdu waits for no family drama."

The color drained from his face. "Your mother made pain perdu."

"I know. She taught me."

"Mary, this is why you need to talk about Matthew."

She took a step back.

"You saw what happened to me when I lost the love of my life."

"How do you know..."

"Mary, you wouldn't have risked this for anyone less."

"How do you know about Matthew?"

Her mobile rang, _not Matthew's,_ and she answered it without looking.

"Mary, it's Ben. Are you alone?"

She looked up at her father. "No."

"Sit. I'm on my way, but I don't want you to hear this from anyone else."

"Did they find him?" She heard Eddie's studio door slam, heard her stumble across the floor.

"Mary, sit down."

"Did they find him?"

"They found Lex Talionis."

"Where?" She felt Eddie's arms go around her, felt herself being pulled to the chaise.

"Spain. Listen, Mary, they have the kidnappers in custody."

"Matthew?"

She heard him take a breath. "Mary, he's gone."

**TBC**


	34. Chapter 34

_a/n: just listen to rain and don't stop. _

**Preferred Stock 34**

* * *

><p>They shut the television away and kept the papers from her at first, but she could read them on her mobile, the one they didn't know about, the one she could not will to ring again. <em>They claim murder. <em>_Photographs of a body. __Clothing found, __mobile, __personal effects __all __returned to sister. _

_Alice's face, Alice alone now. _

_Alice has Daniel._

_I have no one._

They tried to protect her, but nothing could soften the blow of each moment, every nerve raw from it. Sleep was impossible, even when she relented and accepted the small white pills that rubbed off the hardest edges. Jemma came every morning, but there was no peace in the practice, and after a week, Jemma merely came and poured her a cup of tea and sat with her on the terrace as the sun rose on another day.

Knowing did not help. Knowing did not make it better.

Alice could not face a memorial and Daniel would not force her, and so words were spoken at Centerbank and at Crawley Martin Thorpe. Some of those words were Mary's, although she could not remember them.

It was Rob who convinced her that work might help, and so she returned that second week, but through the front entrance instead of the secured one _that motorcycle, that race_. It was Aurelie who monitored Mary's assistant, Percy who filtered information, and it was Greg, from thousands of miles away, who sent her reports that made her smile, even if only for a moment on that first day _seven days._

_I've survived for seven days._

She wore the ring openly now, the stone and band no longer unfamiliar. No one remarked upon it, but she saw the glances in the morning meeting, at the offsite lunch with Percy, and during the LIBOR debrief with Ben and his team. The old Mary, the one who disliked pity, came roaring back, and she bit back the sharpest replies to inane ideas about simply ignoring questions about LIBOR fixing. Her responses were brutal enough, causing Ben to cut the meeting short with a curt order to the junior counsel.

"You," he said as the door shut behind them. "I'd heard about this Mary Crawley but I never thought to meet her."

"It was an idiotic plan."

"Yes, it was." He poured a Scotch for himself and capped it after she shook her head. "And I don't disapprove at all."

"This Mary Crawley isn't interested in approval."

"Point taken. I won't weigh in again." He watched the liquid swirl in the glass. "I do have a legal question for you. It's about Patrick."

"Patrick."

"Specifically about the photographic record he kept of you. It seems the Crown would like to see if it's possible you won't publicly object to having that part of his criminal enterprise kept out of trial."

"I'm sorry..." She gripped the back of her chair, willing herself to stay standing. "They won't charge him with stalking me?"

"It hasn't been made public. It's unlikely it would play in the murder case against him, but they want to keep things as simple as possible. They're concerned it will muddle things."  
>"And you think...?"<p>

He grinned, a fleeting thing _he lost him, too. _"I thought I wasn't going to tell you what I thought."

"What do you think?"

"Frankly, I think you shouldn't have to deal with this now. Or at any time, but especially now. You'll be on the fringes of this, possibly mentioned in passing, and the.. what was it, eleven hundred? The photos won't end up in the Daily Mail. Patrick's defense won't mind; they'll probably be pleased they don't have to explain away stalking one woman whilst sleeping with and then killing another."

She did not expect to laugh, but she did. "Didn't I fire you?"

"Yes," he said. "But you haven't kicked me out. I thought you'd forgotten."

"You seemed useful."

"Until now?"

She shrugged. "Eddie seems to like you. For that alone..."

"Mary, I'm serious about the photographs and hacking. Let it go. Let it be just about the murder case."

"May I see him?"

At first he did not know what she meant. "Mary, there's nothing..."

"Patrick. I need to see Patrick."

"No."

"Why?"

"What good will it do?"

"I'd like to know why he did it."

"Killed.."

"No." She sat down. "I need to know about the photographs. I don't care why he killed Alix. Oh, don't give me that look."

He put up his hands. "No look."

"Just get me in to see him. Briefly. It won't take long."

"You think he'll give you an answer? When everything he says can be used against him?"

"It'll please him," Mary said. "To think someone cares enough to ask."

* * *

><p>They sat in silence with cups of thick Turkish coffee, something Eddie had not drunk in years, but Rob's face when he saw the old moka pot... <em>He made it that last summer,<em> she thought as she stared across the darkening sky. She was skimming through a series of wide angle photographs on her tablet and he was idly picking through the stack of _Financial Times_ they'd kept from Mary. _Nearly normal. _

"I don't suppose there's any cake?" He put the papers in the bin.

"Mary's not much for cake."

"No, she never was." He chose an apple from the basket.

"I don't think she should be at work."

"You think she should lock herself away here?"

"Worked for me."

Rob put down the apple. "Mary isn't you."

"She needs to be protected."

"She needs support, not protection. Work is just what she needs. She's not a child."

"We were."

It had been so long in coming that she couldn't help it. She felt the years fall away, felt herself shrink in his gaze. "It was nice, I shouldn't have..."

"Yes, you should. And I should listen. And I should have listened." He pushed his fists against the cold stone of the worktop. "Don't you think I would take it all back if I could."

"I know you would." Eddie's mobile trilled for a moment and she glanced at the message. "Mary's going to be late."

* * *

><p>"Are we going to Mary's tonight?" Holly dropped her bag and then herself onto the sofa next to Percy.<p>

"Eddie asked. Try for a vaguely normal family dinner to distract her." Percy kissed Holly. "Which is impossible because it's not a normal family."

"Beat me to it." Holly kicked off her shoes. "It's only been a week. What are they expecting?"

"Granny used to frown on crying; she'd tell us we weren't Italian. Something her great-grandmother used to say. But there's stiff upper lip and there's unfeeling. No one's expecting her not to feel. I think we're all just hoping she doesn't..." He broke off. "I don't mean that she would do that, or even try. But I think we all want keep her away from that kind of depression. We've all faced it from some angle at some point, a loss."

Holly nodded.

"And so I guess we'll try to follow her lead. She worked today. I heard she bit off the heads of at least two solicitors."

"Good girl," Holly said.

* * *

><p>"Bonjour."<p>

"Moshi moshi." Greg came into focus on the videoconference screen. "How did it go?"

"I'm afraid we will eventually be working for Mary's new assistant. She is far more clever than either of us."

"Impossible."

"She got her to eat and got her into a car at precisely five o'clock. You tell me when you did that."

"Shenanigans. How are you?"

"Rather well. I like operations. Or rather, I like the mess that is operations because I can fix it. Currently switching out all our conferencing software and realigning the chain of command for assistants and analysts. You won't recognize the place. How are you?"

"Very well. Did the omakase." She touched the screen, and he touched the place where her hand rested. "It was lovely. Poured one out for him. Nearly started an international incident."

"Suntory?"

"Of course." He paused. "I heard you had a date."

"I had dinner. And who told you?"

"Caitlin mentioned it when I called her to go over Mary's tea preferences again." He grinned. "If it's the same Indira I met at the Olympics fundraiser, you two must look spectacular together."

She smiled. "We are rather pretty."

"Pretty is as pretty does. Are you happy?"

Aurelie nodded. "Very." She touched the screen again. "Are you?"

"I will be." Aurelie's mobile began to ring. "Don't you need to get that?"

"No." It stopped. "It's done that twice today. No number. Can't get it to call back."

* * *

><p>"She went back to work?" Chirag dropped the greasy bag on Dany's desk. "Your favorite."<p>

Dany peeled open the sack and took a long sniff. "Bless you. Yes, she did. And left promptly at five o'clock. Any developments on the Westfield case?"

"Got an OTR briefing this afternoon that confirmed they will only be pursuing the murder charge. _Daily Mail_ won't have the fun of publishing a thousand Mary Crawley photos taken by a stalker."

Dany took a bite and groaned. "So good. I'm glad for her sake. She doesn't need that."

"You like her, don't you?"

"I cover her."

Her mobile rang. "Oy. I'm eating." She pressed the answer button. "I'm eating."

"Am I on speaker?"

Dany put down the sandwich and picked up the phone. "No."

"You know who I am?"

She waved Chirag away. "Yes."

"I'll deny I told you this."

"Told me what?"

"I mean it."

"Off the record."

There was a long silence on the other end. "There was a break in the Lex Talionis investigation."

"Of the murder."

"Of the kidnapping."

* * *

><p>"You don't have to do this."<p>

"No." Mary fiddled with the lanyard. "I have to. At least for my own peace of mind."

Ben took her bag from her. "I'll be right here. Don't..."

"What?"

"Don't let him get inside your head."

"I could have told you that."

"All the same." The door swung open and he stepped back. "Be careful."

The door slammed shut and she sat down, facing the glass.

_Of course he makes me wait._

It was a full fifteen minutes before the door opened.

"Cousin Mary."

"I'm not your cousin."

"Distantly. Some generations back, my father told me." He smiled and sat down, his face slightly distorted by the glass between them, his voice amplified. "So you wanted to see me."

"Wanted isn't precisely the right word."

"Needed?"

"Definitely not."

"You need something, don't you? Peace of mind? A question answered?" Patrick leaned back and propped his feet on the table. He ignored a barked warning from the guard. "How's Matthew?"

"Dead," she said, and it was the first time she'd used the word.

"Shame," Patrick replied. "No, really. He seemed mostly intelligent. I didn't like him for you, but he didn't deserve to die."

The guard came in and gestured at Patrick's feet. He dropped them to the floor and rolled his eyes at Mary. "This place," he said.

"Which you won't be getting out of until they take you to proper prison."

He shrugged. "I doubt it will get that far. They'll pin it back on your father after I've finished talking."

"Why are you so hell bent on destroying my father?"

"He's in the way."

"Of what?"

"You."

She was glad of the practice all day, all week, for years of her life, the practice that allowed her to breathe in six counts and out six counts as it sank in. "Me."

"I thought Eddie might help me, but she refused and you saw what happened. Your father has always interfered."

"Interfered with what?"

"With us."

"Us?"

"Us, Mary. It was supposed to be us."

* * *

><p>"If you could take one thing back, what would it be?"<p>

"In life?" Eddie poured two fingers of Lagavulin in the heavy glass and passed it to Rob. "Getting in the car with Patrick. No. Letting Mark buy me a drink. Probably wouldn't have run into half the trouble I'm in if I'd told him to sod off in Nice."

He nodded.

"What about you, Papa?"

"I'd have listened to you when you said Maman should stay at home where you could take care of her."

She put down her own drink. "Papa, I was eleven."

He drained the glass. "But you weren't wrong."

"You don't know that anything would have changed."

"I do. I do. I've always..." He put his head in his hands.

"Oh, God. Papa." She wrapped her arms around him. "You don't."

The rain began to fall outside, and they ignored the angry rings of the flat's land line as she let her father cry.

* * *

><p>"Us... for what? Running Crawley Martin Thorpe? You made sure that wouldn't happen."<p>

"No, no. I'd run it." He grinned, and for a moment she thought she saw the Patrick of old, sly, wheels always turning. "I'd run it for you. You were meant to be the lady of the house, not..." He waved his hands in the air. "That's how it was supposed to be. That's how the rules of the game went. That's how we played."

It was suddenly, sickeningly, ludicrously real _playing business playing Crawley Martin Thorpe we were children he was a teenager why did he play with us Sybil hated him why did his father beat him when he thought we weren't looking why did Charlotte stand up for him why did he play with children Percy refused to play why did Patrick always play chairman why did he get.._

"You always got so angry when you didn't get to be chairman."

"I'm the boy. I'm supposed to be in charge."

"I was better at it. Still am, as a matter of fact."

His eyes went blank for a moment, and she wondered if he could break the glass to try and kill her, and strangely, in this moment, she wanted him to try so she could kill him first.

"And Alix? Did she not let you be in charge? Does Nicola?"

He chewed at the inside of his mouth, the tic Sybil made fun of so many years ago. _Why did anyone let him do anything? Why couldn't they see what was wrong with him? _"Christ, Patrick, you were practically an adult."

"It was how it was supposed to be," he said stubbornly.

"You think I would have married you?"

"Of course you would have. You still could. We still could. I could divorce Nicola." He smiled. "We could still make it all right. It could still be the way it was supposed to be."

_He's mad. Or trying to convince them he's mad. _She stood up and motioned to the guard. "Patrick, it's the way it's supposed to be. You're there, and I'm here, and when I walk out, I won't remember you."

She did not turn around when the chair struck the glass, nor when she could hear him screaming.

* * *

><p>Ben stood up as soon as she rounded the corner. "Is that him?"<p>

"Yes," Mary replied. "I think he's faking it."

"They don't," he said.

"I have to believe he's faking it." She took her satchel and her mobile from Ben's hands. "Otherwise, what I believed to be a nightmare is quite possibly the most terrifying reality you can imagine. At some point, I might tell you about it. Not now."

"Going home?"

"Yes. Eddie's making dinner. Presumably to make me feel a sense of family at a time like this. You're welcome to join us."

"She's already invited me."

"I see." She looked up at him. "I approve, you know."

"Ben Macmillan isn't interested in your approval."

"Ha. Touché. Do you want a lift?"

"I'll follow in my car. Mary..." He held out his hand and she took it. "I'm sorry about.. everything."

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry. You lost him too. We all lost him."

He nodded. "We'll talk tonight. After dinner. He'd made some arrangements. I can't face Alice, not yet. I need your advice if you're willing?"

"Of course."

It was a curious kind of lightness she felt as she slid into the back of the Mercedes. _He can't hurt anyone ever again. _It was not cold, but she shivered as the rain struck the windscreen and she was not on that dark road in London, but on that stretch to Barcelona that night _that night. _She tried to breathe, but it came in short gasps, and she pinned her hands together _one two three four five six._

The driver, an old man who had once served as her grandfather's security detail, glanced at her in the mirror, but did not return her shaky smile. "You do what you have to do, my lady."

She tried to laugh. "You always do that. It's not 'my lady.'"

"It is to me, my lady. I'll let you be." The soundproof partition slid into place, and she caught herself in the black glass, jaw clenched, and not any breath could stop the sob, could stop the second or third, could stop her from curling into a ball and crying as she had never cried before.

"Matthew," she whispered, her cheek against the cold leather of the seat. "Matthew."

Her mobile jangled, a shocking sound, and she glanced down to see the caller.

"Fuck off, Dany," she muttered, and turned it off.

* * *

><p>"Fuck," Dany said.<p>

"What?" Chirag lifted his head. "And you're not going to believe what I just heard."

"Yeah, well, I think I have you beat." She redialed, and got the same straight-to-voicemail. "There's a change in a story, and I have this odd feeling I should get a statement from someone about it, but in reality, I just actually want to tell this someone what this change is."

"Let me guess. They found the body."

"No," she said. "Much better." She tried again.

"Fuck off, Dany." Mary's voice was thick. "That's on the record and I'm sure you'll enjoy publishing that."

"Mary, wait."

"Did I ever give you permission to use my first name?" She wiped her eyes.

"No. Mary, I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you this, but there's been a change in the case. They've been interrogating the suspects."

"The killers," Mary said.

"The suspects. One of them broke and changed the story."

"What story?"

"That they killed him."

The car pulled into the freight dock and stopped. She did not wait for the driver to open the door. "Dany, what.."

"The woman told them four hours ago that they didn't kill him. He got away, escaped before the K&R team raided the place. The investigators are still there; the extradition process with Andorra is a nightmare, and so now they've got teams combing the hills and the towns. They weren't looking for an unidentified man because they didn't know they had a missing person."

The lift opened and Eddie grabbed her hand. "Mary, come up. It's good news. It's good."

"I know," she said, her ear still pressed to the phone. Ben ran up behind them, barking something into his mobile. "I know."

"Mary?"

"Yes, Dany?"

"I'll let you know if I hear anything else."

"Thank you." She hung up the phone and threw her arms around Eddie. "They think he's alive, Eddie. He's alive."

The doors slid open. "I know, Mary. Look."

* * *

><p>They'd put it on the kitchen screen, and she leaned up to put her hand against his. "Hi."<p>

"Hi yourself."

"Where are you?"

"Some little clinic in Escaldes. I got here two days ago. Slept like the devil. Walked a while. Got lost in the forest and I wasn't dressed for being kidnapped." She laughed, and he smiled, and her heart soared. "My Catalan's not exactly good. Tried calling all the numbers I could remember when I woke up." He coughed. "You know, I didn't remember your mobile number. Our number. I could kick myself."

"I'll do it for you." She gasped as he grinned. "It's you. Oh, God. Matthew..."

"Shh. We have an audience."

"Have you called Alice?"

"Of course." His face fell. "I wish she hadn't had to go through this. I wish you hadn't."

"Stop it. It's fine. It's done now. Unless they won't extradite you."

"No, they're airlifting me to Barcelona Centre Medic in about twenty minutes." He laughed, and coughed again. "It's faster than a flight back to London."

"I'll meet you there."

"With _pa amb xocolata_?"

"And cava."

"Razor clams." He grinned sleepily. "Love you."

"We have an audience."

"Don't care. Love you." A stern face replaced his and informed them in halting English that the patient would be at Barcelona within the hour.

"Love you," Mary whispered as the screen went black.

**TBC**


	35. Chapter 35

_A/N: Listen to whatever makes you happy. Thanks again to Eolivet and ARCurren and to all of you who've been on this journey. One more chapter after this... _

**Preferred Stock 35**

* * *

><p>The hall was too long, just like the BA flight, just like the drive to the clinic where they had brought Matthew only eight hours ago. Her legs shook underneath her as she passed private room after private room, murmurs the only sound, her footfall silent. The guards knew to let her past them at the end of the corridor, and she slipped into the room to find him asleep.<p>

He was sunburnt and scruffy, the beard oddly dark for one so fair. It grew haphazardly across his cheeks and it made her want to giggle. His hands sported tape wraps around various fingers and his lips were coated in ointment. The IV in his arm dripped at regular intervals and the monitor's beeps sounded almost cheerful. He stirred, and she kept herself at a distance as she spoke. "Matthew," she said, softly, but firmly. "Matthew."

His eyes blinked open, and he squinted against the filtered sunlight as her face came into focus. "I was having a terrible dream," he said. "I dreamed you couldn't get a flight out."

"That was true for about an hour," she replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Less thirsty and less hot." He yawned. "You cut your hair."

"I cut all of them."

"Funny." He closed his eyes.

"What happened to your hands?"

"I tried to make fire." He wiggled his fingers. "You should see my feet."

She peeled back the covers. "Were you barefoot?"

"They gave me flip flops. God knows why."

Mary touched the bandages. "Cut up?"

"Raw, basically. If you asked me to walk right now, I couldn't make it to the door." He grinned. "You've got me."

"Yes, I do." She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to put her cheek against his. "I'd hug you, but I don't know where it hurts."

He wrapped his arms around her back. "It doesn't hurt anywhere."

"Good meds?"

He kissed her ear. "The best. I'm pretty sure you're here, but I've dreamed you so many times..."

She kissed his mouth, lightly, her lips brushing across the top and the bottom before touching his nose, his chin, and his forehead. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere until you are."

Matthew did not answer, and she sat up to find him asleep again.

* * *

><p>He awoke to darkness and something that smelled like bread, and his eyes could just make out a tray next to a sleeping Mary stretched out on a long recliner. "Mary," he whispered. "Mary."<p>

She shot to her feet. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said. "What's that smell?"

Her hand brushed his forehead. "Food."

"I gathered as much. What kind?"

"Seeded croissants. The kind you like. And _cafe amb lait_. I might have polished that off, though. Would you like some? I can call for it."

"What time is it?" He squinted at the wall. "It's four a.m."

"This place is amazing." She tore a piece from one of the pastries and put it in his mouth. "I could have ordered a drink if I wanted it."

He grinned. "You're sure it's not just because you're Mary Crawley?"

"I doubt it. I think I saw Ferran Adriá himself walking bags into the room down the hall."

"In that case, I want something with flavored foam in it."

She handed him the whole croissant. "Feed thyself. Are you sure you don't want any coffee?"

"Not yet. I want some more sleep. And some more..." He reached for her. "_Besos_."

She obliged him with the latter before he sought the former on his own, and as he snored, she watched the sun rise through the shades.

* * *

><p>The gentle hands of a nurse woke him and he squinted against the sun as she helped him to his feet. They hurt less than before, but it was still a painful few steps even with crutches to the door and back. Mary was nowhere to be found, but a note by his bed answered his question. <em>Arranging hotel, <em>it read. _I'm told you'll be released back into the wild with me __tomorrow__. Any requests? _

His heart thumped at thoughts he doubted he could act upon just yet, but when she returned with flushed cheeks, a stack of papers all telling precisely the same wrong story about what had happened to him, and an espresso thick as mud, he had no request other than for a kiss. "_Peton,_" she murmured as she wiped away the last of the healing oil on his mouth. "It's _peton _in Catalan, I'm told."

It took him a few minutes to wonder who she had asked.

* * *

><p>It was dusk when he opened his eyes again. He tilted his head toward the murmurs to find Mary deep in conversation with his doctors over hydration and electrolytes, elevation and symptoms about which she should be concerned. "He is in excellent condition. He is very lucky."<p>

"I'm right here," Matthew croaked.

The doctor turned to him without smiling. "You are very lucky. I've told your fiancée what you need for the next few days until you fly home. It is not much. A nurse will come and check on you daily and change the foot dressings. Use the crutches if you need them. Don't just sit there."

"I won't," Matthew replied.

"But don't do too much. You will need to eat and to sleep and to drink water and you must listen to your fiancée."

"I always do."

* * *

><p>He didn't want to wake her, but he knew if he moved the blinds just so, just enough to let a ray cross her eyes, her eyes would open and they would be on their way to the hotel, away from doctors and nurses and needles. He did it twice before he realized it was a dream and he had not yet awakened himself. "Mary," he whispered, and she did it for him without asking, summer light streaming across his face. Matthew dressed himself, but fell asleep again after breakfast, after lunch, and the blue of the sky was dark before they put him into the wheelchair with strict instructions he would not remember. A motorcycle passed them on the long road, and she smiled before he did and smiled again at the touch of his thumb on hers<em>.<em>

* * *

><p>"What did you tell the doctor?"<p>

He folded his arms. "That I wouldn't just sit here."

"You said you would listen to me."

"I am listening."

"That's not water."

"He didn't say only water."

"I'm quite sure he didn't mean Scotch."

Matthew poured a slug of soda water into the glass and swirled the ice. "It's nighttime in Barcelona. I am with my beautiful fiancée, twenty-one stories above the Mediterranean. I can hear relatively decent music playing from the bar, and I am about to drown that out with something much better. And," he said as he lifted the glass. "I am alive, which is not what I was expecting."

Her throat closed.

He fiddled with his iPhone, not looking at her, and the room exploded in sound, making her jump. "Damn. Too loud," he muttered.

She knew it, although not well. "You played this before."

"In New York," he replied. He picked up his crutches and negotiated his way onto the terrace, half on one heel and on the edge of the other. "Nope," he said after a moment. "Can't be outside."

Mary watched him walk back in and slump down on the long bench. "Should you be on your feet?"

"I'm not on my feet."

"You know what I mean."

He shrugged. "Didn't they tell you?"

"They said you should do what was comfortable."

"Anything's comfortable after that."

_That _hung in the air. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"God, no." He drained the glass. "Are you hungry?"

"Dinner's on the way." It was her turn to fold her arms. "Are you planning on giving up the meds for the Scotch?"

"Absolutely. Think of what it did for Churchill. On second thought, don't."

There was a discreet knock at the door, which stopped her from saying anything for a while. She plated clams and aged beef for him and watched him pick at it, watched his eyes change as his thoughts did.

A slammed door made him wince and he put down the fork. "I thought we were alone on this floor."

"The nurse is staying next door."

"That's not alone." He frowned. "I don't need a nurse."

"You do for the next twenty-four hours. I'd rather know he only has to walk down the hall instead of try to get out here from the hospital or God knows where."

He opened his mouth and shut it again. "Only twenty-four hours?"

"Only twenty-four hours. Unless you get worse."

"I'm not going to get worse." He chose water this time, and she let another breath escape.

* * *

><p>She came to bed with him, but she could not sleep, and so she took herself back to the terrace as soon as he began to snore. It was too late for music and so it was only the waves that she heard as she nursed a Campari soda. A dozen texts and messages had to be answered and so she did, <em>we'll be back in seventy-two hours, I don't know when he's going back to work, I'll tell him you said so, thank you, thank you, thank you..<em>

Her back ached, and so she spread a beach towel on the terrace floor and stretched like a cat until her body settled into savasana. She counted the breaths against the waves, matching the rhythm, six in, six out.

"You could be sleeping with me instead." His voice startled her into sitting up, and she found him stretched out next to her.

"You shouldn't be on the floor," she began, but he sat up and kissed her.

"I forgot to do this tonight," he said. "I told myself I wouldn't ever miss a chance to kiss you again."

"Out there?" she asked.

He nodded, and brushed his fingers down her arm. "I don't want to talk about it."

"All right," she said, and she tucked herself into him. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Your nursing skills," he said, and she laughed. "What?"

"Genetic, perhaps. My great-grandmother had to nurse my great-grandfather. Twice, as a matter of fact. Once after he'd thrown her over and the second after she'd just given birth to my grandfather."

"The crash?"

"The baby wasn't even twenty-four hours old." She twined her fingers with his. "That took weeks of recovery."

"She nursed him after he threw her over?"

"The war wound. He was engaged to that Lavinia Swire girl who's buried at Downton now, and she was engaged to Sir Richard Carlisle, and..."

"Hang on. Carlisle? THE Carlisle?"

"The original one, yes."

He whistled. "She had a lucky escape. Might have been there when the dirty deed was done."

Mary grinned. "Rather."

"So she nursed him while they weren't even engaged. I hope he appreciated it."

"Not the way Granny Violet tells it."

"He sounds like he started out as a bit of a fucking idiot." He kissed her. "I'm grateful for his actions both professional and private. Especially the ones that ensured you were here to take care of me. Not now. I don't mean now." He pressed his face against her hair. "I mean every moment."

She felt the struggle in his breath and bit back the words _do you want to talk about it._ "You need to be in a bed," she said. "Not the floor."

"I want to be here," he murmured. "Under the sky with you. I thought about you all the time."

"I'm not good in the wilderness," she said. "I'm funny about proper loos."

She was relieved when he laughed. "I thought I was until... what's the line? You don't know how strong you are until strong is all you can be? Something like that on conference room walls?"

"God, I hate those posters."

"So do I. But that's actually true. I didn't think..." The moon moved before he spoke again. "They were dumb, Mary. Really dumb children. They did all these things, planned all this mess and.." He laughed again. "They were too stupid to know how to keep a hostage. They tried..."

She eluded his hands as she stood up, and only when he saw she was retrieving the bottles of Scotch and Campari and tucking a bottle of soda under her arm did he lean back on his hands. "What did they try?" she said as she handed him a fresh glass.

"To torture me," he said slowly. "And not well. I don't know what they thought I'd say."

"Torture," she said, neutrally, as her heart thumped.

"No sleep," he said. "And they kept asking questions about the Illuminati, and then about whether Jews were really in charge. They're idiotic, racist, anti-Semitic... You don't even believe that people are this moronic and they are. They really are. And after all that, they kept doing the same things every day, switching off guarding me at exactly the same time. It took me five days to confirm that I had about twenty minutes to get away sometime between six and seven pm. Idiots. IDIOTS."

"I'm glad," she said, "that they were so incompetent."

He frowned for a moment before he grinned at her _there you are, my love, my Matthew. _"I suppose I should be glad they were incapable of doing the job."

"You loathe incompetence."

"There are reasons to believe the financial industry is rigged against the common man. Those are not the reasons. If you're going to kidnap me and..." He drained the glass of Scotch and soda. "Just do it because you realize that every public and private pension is never going to pay you what they say it will. Do it because you know that if you work hard and save, you still aren't going to end up as well off as your parents unless you're a Crawley or a Dimon or a Gates or.." He stared up at the sky. "What we do is shit, isn't it?"

"Did they get to you?"

He glared at her. "Stockholm syndrome? Yeah, they really got to me." He took the Scotch bottle and mixed his own. "No, nothing they said got to me. They don't have a clue."

"I didn't mean..." She pressed her hand against his cheek. "You're right, what we do is shit. Except if we didn't do it, actual shits like Patrick would be doing it, and people would be that much worse off."

"I hope so," he said. "I'm glad this... I'm glad what happened meant you could end that. End him, I mean. If nothing else.."

"I'm not glad," she said.

"You're rid of him."

"I lost you," she whispered. "I lost you."

He reached for her. "You have me now."

She let out a shuddering sound, not quite a sob, and it was his turn to let her be quiet, his turn to wait until a ribbon of pink showed on the horizon. "Damn," she whispered. "You were supposed to get some sleep."

"I was supposed to get some rest," he said. "And I did." He toyed with the ring on her hand. "What did we decide about this?"

"We hadn't."

"All right," he said. "Here is what we should do. We should go get some actual sleep. I think you need it. Then we will pick a date, preferably sometime before you become an aunt and after I become an uncle, which is likely in the next few weeks."

"Hold on." She punched him lightly in the stomach. "That's from Alice for making her worry."

"Why does she always think it's my fault? To continue, we shall pick a date, and we shall make this legal. I told myself..." He gripped her hand. "In the rain that first night. Up the tree the second night when I heard them. Every step, I told myself that when I got to you, I wouldn't waste another moment. Ever."

She kissed him, his lips, his eyes, his cheeks, and then his mouth again before she whispered against it. "I love you, Matthew David Crawley."

They slept they way they always had, hands together, feet brushing, close enough for warmth, until a discreet set of knocks shook Mary out of dreams of her home through a gossamer veil. The nurse pronounced his feet as much better and his blood pressure and temperature normal. "You will be home soon," he said. "No sun today, though. Stay in and eat good food."

They did, warm croissants and eggs for breakfast with tea and coffee while he did a crossword in Spanish and she listened in to a conference call. He ordered cuttlefish and salads before getting on a conference call of his own, and while she was not in the room for it, she heard his voice raised on several points and the confidence in it made her smile. "Can we do this?" she said when he called out to her that the stupid thing was over and she could come back in. "Together, but with separate worlds?"

"I don't know," he said simply. "I don't know if I can. I think you can."

"Why me?"

"It's in your blood. It's who you are. You are Crawley Martin Thorpe. I mean it," he said as she laughed. "You're your great-grandmother, great-grandfather, your father. You're Alastair. You're the best of all of them and if anyone can be the best that business can be, it's you."

"And you can't?"

He shrugged.

"What can you be?"

He grinned at her, and pulled her to his lap, and began to kiss her. "I can be this," he said as his hand brushed her breast.

"Mine?" she asked against his throat. "Are you up for this?"

He did not answer with words, only his mouth, his lips, first on hers, and then on her skin, on her neck as she gripped his arms, reveling first in his touch and then in his strength as he flipped her over easily. "Mine," he whispered finally.

"Mine," she replied as he found his way to her, and it was as it as been, shocking at first, and then not, a deep wave that began and could not be stopped, hands, mouths, breaths, skin, a race of wordless cries until they both finished breathlessly. "Mine," she said again, fiercely, as he shuddered a second time against her and she did not let him go.

"When?" she heard him say again as she fell asleep.

"As soon as we get back," she mumbled.

* * *

><p>It was not quite so soon but it was close enough. The tiny blond infant who bore the names of three grandmothers would never remember the wedding, but she was alone in that. Harper and Maida and Jack told stories of it their whole lives, how they slid down the grand staircase on trays with the help of old Mr. Bates after they had strewn flowers and carried rings. Granny Violet believed she had never seen such a beautiful wedding at Downton, that no bride had ever been as radiant, no groom had ever looked as pleased with himself. Her sisters, one glowing with love, the other raging at the mere mention of glowing, walked before her, and her father, his hands shaking and his heart thumping, held her hand before she released it and walked the last few steps herself. <em>I give myself away,<em> she had insisted, and no one who knew her wondered at why.

It was large and yet not, only family and the very closest of friends, and it was Percy who decided on the music they should dance to in the grand saloon. It was Greg who selected the flowers, with remote advice from Aurelie, who was busy rebuilding the morale and structure of the Mumbai IT offices. It was old David Bates who supervised the food, much in the way of his mentor and his mother. It was Nate who quoted reams of poetry under the influence, Holly who sang, and Jemma who gave a bawdy lecture on the perils and triumphs of marriage.

It was Granny Violet who gave them the last present before leaving with the rest of the raucous crowd headed for the pub in the village. "Don't you dare come down," she said. "It's your wedding night. You should behave as such." She laughed as Mary blushed. "I'm not that old. I'm aware it's not the first time, but it ought to feel as such. This, however, will be my first beer in a very long time. I plan to enjoy it." She kissed Mary on the cheek. "Go to him. I'll see myself out."

He was playing with the music when she strolled up to him. "Not tired?"

"Not really." He lifted the wrapped package from her hand. "What's this?"

"From Granny. She said it was for luck."

"Do we need it?" He drew her into a waltz, his cheek against hers.

"I'll take what I can get."

They danced for a time, their limbs growing heavy together, their bodies twining until he lifted her, her legs winding around him. He knew where to go even in the half-light, not the red room, but a green room, the fire already lit in the grate. She took her time with his clothes, and he with hers, until they tumbled together in the bed, skin on skin, and he sat up without warning.

"What?"

"I want to open that present."

"You idiot." She reached across him to the table and picked it up. "All yours."

It was a toy, and for a moment she did not know why it was now hers, until the memory washed over her, and she kissed its head before kissing Matthew again. "Lady Mary gave it to her Matthew for luck."

"Did it work?"

"He lived." She put her hand to his cheek. "You lived. That's all the luck I need."

**TBC**


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: Last one. Thanks to Eolivet and ARCurren as always, and thanks to all of you who've supported and reviewed this. It means a lot._

* * *

><p><strong>Preferred Stock 36<strong>

They honeymooned in Lourmarin and Scotland, hidden in plain sight. She taught him the ways of a temperamental French farm kitchen, and he taught her how to navigate the coldest of lake waters in a wetsuit. Their unwelcome security details behaved appropriately to the point that Matthew stopped thinking of them, though Mary never did. Mobiles did not ring. They chose a time each day to check on the world outside, silently and without comment to follow. For two weeks, they said nothing of the places to which they had to return.

Not until he slipped into the driver's seat of her old Defender did the world come back to them, and only because they were entirely unsure of where to go.

"You don't have to move in with me," she said. "The right side. Wipers."

He turned on the wipers and waited for the muck to clear. "I have no attachment to my place in London. You love your flat."

"Yes, but I'm not going to kick out Eddie. She needs the studio."

"I don't mind living with Eddie."

"You say that now. Wait until three a.m. when she decides only Eminem at football stadium decibels can inspire her. Or when she decides to paint you. Never mind the fact that Papa seems disinclined to stay anywhere else when he's in London."

"He really did let Charlotte have Grantham House?"

She craned her neck to see past the stone wall before waving him forward and he pulled onto the pavement. "Easier than fighting, and he never liked it that much anyway. He got the art and furniture, which is all that really matters anyway. It's a terrible house."

"Why didn't we talk about this before?"

"My father or where we were living? I assumed your place." Mary turned on the radio. "I'm not doing what my great-grandparents did. He kept saying they'd live alone, but then.." She broke off. "I mean, Downton is enormous, but who wants to face the parents every morning?"

"We can start at my place. I'll have to.." He laughed.

"Clean?"

"Unpack," he said. "Where are you going to do your yoga?"

"Jemma's studio's not far from your place."

"In public? Not in a private studio?

"Stop." She started to laugh and pointed behind them. "Can you imagine him in class?"

He glanced at the Mercedes saloon in the rearview, the shadow of two men in its front seats. "No, but I can't imagine the class at all. Madness, I tell you. Madness."

"It's lovely," she replied and stretched. "I can't wait to get back to it."

"What about work?"

"No names, no pack drill," she muttered. "Yes and no."

"Sorry. If it's any consolation, I'm not looking forward to it." He fell silent, and it was just the whip of rain against the window and the answering soft scrapes on glass that accompanied them for miles.

* * *

><p>It was with an uncharacteristic squeal that Jemma welcomed Mary into the five-thirty a.m. silent class. "Couldn't get practice in otherwise," Mary whispered as they left the room at seven-fifteen.<p>

"Unless Matthew's going to put a hot room in the flat and I can go back to teaching your private classes. Ooh, get him to join us."

"No chance," Mary replied. "There's no place for it and he's pathologically afraid of heat."

"How are you settling in?"

"It's a nice neighborhood."

"I mean marriage."

"It's a nice neighborhood." Her eyebrows raised to match Jemma's. "It's wonderful, but we're on week three of it, and only week one of real life."

"True." Jemma picked up a mug of hot black tea and handed it to Mary. "But I think you're going to be all right."

Mary drank, the heat a surprising antidote to her own elevated temperature. "Still works."

"Half of them still don't believe me," Jemma hissed as the rest of the class filled up on cold water.

"I believe everything you tell me," Mary said.

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"So if I tell you Matthew's not going to last six months at Centerbank, you'll believe me?"

"Last? You mean cut loose?"

Jemma shrugged. "No, under his own power. I don't see him staying."

"What brought this on?"

Jemma exchanged niceties with two of the students, and waited until the stragglers made it into the dressing room. "Let's just say I've enjoyed being right about things recently. I've missed the prediction bits of our work."

"So this is just for your own amusement? Or are you angling for your old job?"

Jemma's eyes met Mary's. "Maybe. Not yet. But no, it's not for my amusement. You're my dearest friend. I love you. It's so you can be ready when he does something that surprises you at a time that may or may not be convenient."

"And?"

She grinned. "And a little bird told me someone's already sniffing around him."

"Who?"

"Not my pig, not my field." Jemma poured another cup of tea. "But be ready for it."

"Six months," Mary said.

* * *

><p>She did not get him to come to class, and he did not even attempt to get her to run, and one week turned into four, and two months turned into five and then some, and it was as if it had been forever, and yet still new, separating regretfully in the morning, hands finding each other, the stroke of thumbs always the last touch. The morning rituals, physical first and then mental as they watched three screens and read from two more, always in silence. They spoke of nothing that existed outside the walls, as they had vowed to themselves and to their boards and, in a way, to the press. What had been split between amusement and appalled horror by outsiders had mellowed into a few barbs here and there, some funny, some not.<p>

"Six months," he whispered to her as he covered her eyes and put a long, slim box in her hand, a bracelet she thought was lost to the Crawleys during the darkest post-crash days.

"Six months," she whispered to him as the Oxford pub went dark and then lit up again as the band that got its start on that stage walked up and started playing to the small crowd that until that moment, thought they were only getting a DJ.

"Six months," he said to no one at when he stared down at yet another report that he could not bear to open.

* * *

><p>"Matthew?" she called. The flat was uncharacteristically dark. "Matthew," she called again.<p>

"I'll call you back," she heard from the terrace, and then a soft beep. "Mary?"

"In here," she replied, and put down her bag. "You're home early."

"You're late," he said.

"I'm on time," she protested. "Who were you talking to?"

He shrugged. "A friend from New York. About footy."

"A player?"

"No," he said. "Dinner?"

The beat was infinitesimal, but they both sensed it, the moment at which information was omitted.

She did not press it then, and she did not press it when the phone calls kept coming at odd hours, late into the night for the next week. She did not ask why he laughed, why he changed his patterns in the morning to look at sport first instead of finance.

She waited until a Friday, when she walked into the flat to find a riot of flowers and the scent of steaks, crisp-grilled with ginger and garlic. She stole his bourbon to make herself a boulevardier, and he tossed a salad as they sipped at their drinks, the silence a balm on her end-of-week nerves. It was not until his phone jangled suddenly from the other room and he paused for a moment too long did she finally find the words.

"How long have you been cheating on me with football?"

He burst out laughing, as did she. "I wouldn't call it cheating."

"What is it? Using your bonus to finance a losing cause?"

"What losing cause?"

"Soccer. In America."

"What's in a boulevardier?"

"Bourbon, Campari, and sweet vermouth. Don't change the subject."

He pulled out the bottles. "I don't think it's a losing cause, and I'm not financing it. Proportions?"

"A little more bourbon. Investing?"

He stirred the drinks. "Investigating, I suppose. I have a hunch... You know anything about American football?"

"The one that looks like rugby for weak souls?"

He grinned. "Yes. Only it's not and there's a shift in... Parents are thinking twice about putting their sons in it because of the concussion problem. There's a path for any good American football player through school. But footy.. soccer's been this elitist thing for years there. It's travel teams and brutal schedules that interfere with school. There's no real mechanism for finding and encouraging the best talent regardless of their parents' ability to pay. Some teams take academies and under-18s seriously and some don't."

"You seem to be taking this very seriously."

"There's a new club," he said slowly. "In New York. Ground up, build it the way you want to, create a dynasty."

"In New York."

He nodded.

"And you want to do that."

Matthew shrugged.

"In New York."

"Exactly." He plated the steak.

"You were serious about getting out."

"Of finance? Maybe."

"You should do it."

"It's in New York." He took the plates to the table and raised his glass. "To you. I saw how you handled questions about the trade deal."

"It won't happen for ten years. No point in starting a stupid panic now."

"Wait nine years and then start the stupid panic."

"Always. Seriously, Matthew, you should do it."

"Do what?"

"Run this football.. soccer... thing. In New York."

"Live separately?"

"Would you have to be there all the time?"

"No," he said slowly. She could see the wheels turning, and so she focused on her food.

"You know," he said when the plates were nearly empty. "Two weeks of every month. I could do that."

"You could."

He smiled, relieve evident on his face. "You're sure? You don't feel..."

"Abandoned and unloved?" His face fell. "No. I'm glad you want to do something. You've been making me sad."

"I have?"

"I want you to be happy. You have the luxury of being able to make that choice. You have the luxury of being able to make any choice. Most people don't. So do it. Make a difference." She grinned. "Enable a miracle in the World Cup. The U.S. making it out of group play."

"You really are all right with this?"

Her hand reached across the table and took his. "If you're all right with this, then I'm all right with this." She forked up the last piece of his steak.

"I'm going to sleep on it." He leaned over and took her drink. "Fair," he said at her protest, and against her lips.

* * *

><p>"He's in for a long disappointment. Americans don't go in for sports that involve grown men acting like babies. Isn't that right?" Sybil's hand stroked the small dark head against her shoulder and was rewarded with a resounding yawn.<p>

"You think he ought to stay at Centerbank?" Mary took the boy from his mother's arms. "Come on, John. Your mother has gone soft on me."

"No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have. Your columns have been distinctly gooey." Eddie dropped onto the floor with her camera and focused in on the now-sleepy face of John Stuart Friedrich ("I couldn't decide") Maier.

"Take that back."

"No." Eddie looked down at the display. "I should just specialize in baby pictures now. It's practically all I've done for months."

"And the consulting." Holly took the camera from Eddie, and flicked through the pictures. "You're still consulting."

"The Sherlock of the art world," Eddie droned. "If I see that one more time..."

"It's cute."

"Sybil, since when do you use the word cute?"

"I'm a yummy mummy, Mary. I say things like that all the time."

"Eddie, why aren't you painting?"

Eddie sighed. "I am painting. It's just not... for anyone. Not yet."

"Not even for Ben?" Holly asked.

"Definitely not for Ben." She stood up. "Are you going to let Matthew go off to America?"

Mary grinned. "I don't think there's a 'let' in it. He's tired of finance. It's an interesting opportunity."

Sybil giggled. "You'll be an actual WAG instead of just a bank WAG. All over the _Daily Mail_ with your wardrobe and the speculation over whether or not you're pregnant. You're not pregnant, are you?"

"No," Mary said slowly.

"It'll be nice going back and forth," Eddie said. "You'll have fun." She watched her sister, eyes sharp, and said nothing else.

* * *

><p>"Football?" Rob passed her the <em>Financial Times <em>and picked up _The Wall Street Journal. _"Odd. I'd have thought he would have gone for a startup or something if he was bored. I suppose it is startup football, but still..."

Mary glanced at the opinion pages _Centerbank on sure footing again... Crawley Martin name change official, as is the resurgence... _"You don't approve?"

"A chairman at a top bank decides to chuck it and supervise a bunch of sweaty man-children with a predilection for dramatic falls and crying?"

"He wouldn't be a coach."

"No, but he'd be responsible for their behavior all the same."

She smiled. "I don't suppose they're any worse than bankers."

Rob laughed. "No, they're probably not. Well, good luck to him."

"You approve?"

"It's not my place to approve or disapprove. It seems a bit early for a midlife crisis. If it was my..." He grinned. "I'd start an orchestra."

"Not a band?"

"God, no. A full-sized orchestra somewhere. Give some musicians some jobs and then force them to play all the Philip Glass I wanted them to."

"That's your planned midlife crisis?"

"Well, I didn't have one." His face clouded for a moment. "There didn't seem to be the right moment."

"You could still do it."

"I'm busy enough. I'm quite enjoying not having much real responsibility other than the estate. It needs some care and I'm happy to provide it."

"How's Granny Violet?"

"Interfering. She's put her foot down on updating the bathrooms again. I keep thinking I can sneak things by her, but she knows somehow."

"It was her house," Mary said. "It's in her blood."

"It's in mine and yours as well," Rob said. "And I'll be damned if I have to put up with bloody bad water pressure."

* * *

><p>"You know what time it is?"<p>

"It is six o'clock in the morning." Aurelie pressed the silver button and got a satisfying hiss out of the machine.

"In London. Do you know what time it is in Rio?"

"Should I?"

"I'm asleep in Rio, so... Yes, you should." Greg rolled away from the wall. "What is it?"

"I have a story you won't believe and it will cost you a weekend in New York City."

Greg grinned. "That the owners of the new football club in New York City want someone you and I both know very well to run it?"

Her face fell. "You heard?"

Indira laughed. "I told you he'd know."

"Say hello to Indira. Of course I knew. I'll still take you to New York, though. I miss you."

"Everything all right?"

"Very," he said. "You'll meet him in New York."

* * *

><p>"I slept on it," he said as the door closed.<p>

"I know," Mary said softly. "I was there for it."

He smiled. "I can do ten days there, five days back."

"Extreme weekends."

"Of a sort." He pulled out his smartphone. "That's for the first few months. It may stretch to weeks, but it's in the contract that for every ten days I get five days back here. Until the beginning of 2015 and then..."

"It's real. It begins then?"

"Playing in Yankee Stadium at first, and then if it goes well, its own home." He swiped through the calendar. "It'll be a lot, but.. you're sure?"

"Of course."

"Even if.." He broke off. "I know at some point it won't be just us."

"You're going to let me have a dog?"

"I mean.."

"I know what you mean." _I always know what you mean, _she thought. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." She took his hand, her thumb nestling under his, nudging until the dance began again, the same and yet, as always, new and thrilling _mine, he is mine, a thousand miles away or here with me._

* * *

><p><em>21<em>_ December__, 2014_

New lights beamed across the Manhattan skyline, the bright new spire a beacon as the last stripe of blue on the horizon turned to black. The players on the field unconsciously turned to it again and again during the game, shivering from cold and, for some, in memory.

There were professionals among them, but for the most part, these were the ones who had never quite left the game behind, the Division I scholarship winners, the longtime adult league champions, the part-time athletes who did Ironmans for fun. They played to win on Fridays and Sundays, and celebrated as if each match was a World Cup.

Matthew pulled off the thick sweatshirt. "In," he called, and exchanged places with a lanky man who looked as if he might collapse if forced to run one more step and he did the second he crossed the line.

"Get on the ball, Crawley!"

And he did, the cold air speeding into his lungs as his feet took control of the ball for mere seconds before a former Arsenal player neatly took it away from him. He played for ten minutes before collapsing next to the still prone Luke, who was casually drinking a beer with eleven minutes to play.

"Electrolytes," he said laconically. "I think, anyway."

"Right," Matthew said as he picked up a matching bottle. "Congratulations on the elopement."

"Thank you. I highly recommend it, if you go for a second round."

"No, I'm in this one for life," Matthew replied.

Luke nodded. "Is she coming for Christmas? Or are you flying home?"

"We have twelve days of Christmas. She's coming here for the start and then we'll go home. My family, her family, her friends, my friends, New Year's, a long weekend in France... "

"And then you're back for the MLS season?"

"March to December."

"You're optimistic."

"We'll make it to playoffs this year. I know it. This is a good team. And I'll still split my time between here and London. So will Mary. Crawley Martin's expanded its presence here. We weren't going to travel quite so much, but things change."

"GET ON THE BALL!"

The scream made them both jump. "God, Scraps does not want to lose this one," Matthew muttered.

"She never does. And my wife is even worse. Mary doesn't play, does she?"

"No, I don't. Get back in, Crawley. I didn't fly all this way to watch you drink a lager off the pitch."

Matthew stood up with a groan. "I'm finished for the night. You missed me brilliantly passing to Thierry."

"I didn't think Thierry was on your team." Mary pulled back her hood and tipped her face to his.

"He's not." He kissed her, his lips warm against her wind-cold skin. "How was the flight?"

"Very quiet, thank goodness. Slept the whole way. I'll trade you for the drink."

He handed her the bottle and took the warm, sleepy bundle of down jumpsuit from her. "Hello, Lilou."

She was too young to answer, but not too young to smile, and so she did, toothless and bright-eyed, and his heart went soft again as she took hold of his thumb and did not let go.

Mary watched him introduce his daughter to his football team, who passed her around like an American football, much to the baby's delight. She ignored the soft buzz in her pocket, knowing it was only a reminder of her two morning meetings. She ignored the cold as she listened to Matthew whisper things in English, things she would say again in French to their little unexpected wonder who bore a ponderous combination of family names that old Aimee had, upon meeting her in Paris, immediately shortened to _Lilou._

"This is going to work," she murmured with a soft smile.

**FIN**


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